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F.  G.  ELLERTON,  M.A. 



METHUEN   &   CO. 

36    ESSEX    STREET    W.C. 





Memoir                         .              .              .           .       .       i 


Down  Stream  to  London                  ,                .            •        •       77 

Good-bye  to  Oxford 


In  Memoriam,  E.  B.  Browning 


The  Bishop  of  Winchester 


A  Sea-side  Reverie 


Setting  Sail 


The  Answer  of  the  Hills 




Coming  Holy  Week 


Easter  Eve 




"Where  the  Shade  is"      . 


Meditation  in  a  Night  of  Pain 



The  Beautiful  Death         .                .                .            ,        .     121 

Christ's  Knight 


The  Ebb  of  Tide 

.     124 

The  Harvest  of  Souls 

.     126 

Ishmael's  Song 


Lullaby  of  Life 


The  Maiden  at  the  Well 


Holiday  Ode  to  the  North- West  Wind 


St.  Columb  of  lona 


A  Lay  of  Port-na-Churaich 


A  Morning  on  lona 





The  Knight  of  Intercession 
Idylls  of  Deare  Childe — 
I.  Deare  Childe 
II.  "Morning  Robert" 
The  Birdie 
The  Gate  of  Death 






The  One  Name 

Four  Poets  :  A  Personal  History — 
I.  Walter  Scott 
II.  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

III.  Alfred  Tennyson 

IV.  John  Keble 

In  Charterhouse  Chapel 
To  Windsor  Cemetery  on  May  Day — 
I.  Through  the  Park 
II.  The  Cemetery    . 
III.  The  Little  Church 
From  Windermere 
"The  Garden  of  the  Lord"' 
Midnight  in  London 
The  Small-pox  in  the  East  End — 
I.  Spring  and  Easter 
II.  Holy  Communion 
A  Sunday  Confirmation  in  an  East  End  Church 
Frederick  Arnold 
Sancho  :  An  Old  Friend 






The  Soliloquy  of  a  Rationalistic  Chicken       .  .        .  223 

A  Boy's  Reverie  .  .  ...  226 

The  Reason  why  Florence  was  called  "The  Duchess"     .  229 

A  Holiday  Ditty  .  .  ...  233 

Lines  written  in  a  Child's  Bible       .  ...  234 

Finis  .  .  ...  235 




"  I  believe  in  the  Holy  Catholic  Church,  the  Communion 

of  Saints" 
Battle  Hymn  for  the  New  Year 
Battle  Hymn  of  Church  Defence     . 
Hymn  for  Missions  to  the  Jews 
Hymn  for  Missions  to  the  Heathen 
The  Proto-Martyr  of  Britain  :   A  Hymn  in  Memory  of 

St.  Alban 
Hymn  of  the  Diamond  Wedding  of  the  Queen  with  her 

Hymn  for  the  Lord's  Day 
Hymn  for  Day  and  Sunday-school  Teachers 
Hymns  for  Church  Workers — 

I.  "  I  magnify  mine  office"   . 
H.  "In  Thee" 
Hymn  for  Candidates  for  Ordination 
Holy  Communion 
Hymn  after  Holy  Communion 
Hymn  after  Benediction 
The  "  Athletes  of  the  Universe  "     . 
The  Beating  Down  of  Satan 
The  Ascension 
The  Perfect  Day 
"  I  believe  in  the  Forgiveness  of  Sins  " 

Index  of  First  Lines 
General  Index 











Say,  when  in  pity  ye  have  gazed 

On  the  wreathed  stnoke  afar. 
That  o'er  some  tow7i,  like  f?iist  upraised. 

Hung  hiditig  sun  and  star. 
Then  as  ye  turned  your  weary  eye 
To  the  green  earth  and  open  sky. 
Were  ye  not  fain  to  doubt  how  Faith  could  dwell 
Amid  that  dreary  glare,  in  this  world's  citadel  1 

There  are  in  this  loud  stunning  tide 

Of  human  care  and  crime. 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 

Of  the  ever  las  tifig  chime  ; 
Who  carry  music  ift  their  heart 
Throtigh  dusky  lane  and  wrangling  mart, 
Flying  their  daily  task  with  busier  feet 
Because  their  secret  souls  a  holy  strain  repeat. 

John  Keble. 






SAMUEL  JOHN  STONE  was  bom  at  Whitmore 
Rectory,  in  Staffordshire,  on  St.  Mark's  Day — 
Keble's  birthday — 1839.  The  first  thirteen  years  of 
his  life  he  spent  in  the  country ;  the  rest,  with  the 
exception  of  his  residence  at  Oxford  and  a  curacy  of 
eight  years  at  Windsor,  in  London,  where  he  worked 
for  thirty  years  in  two  different  parishes — for  twenty 
years  in  St.  Paul's,  Haggerston,  and  for  ten  in  All 
Hallows',  London  Wall,     He  died  in  1900. 

Stone  is  generally  known  as  the  author  of  The 
Church 's  one  Foundation  and  as  a  religious  poet ; 
hardly  at  all  on  his  other  side  as  a  strenuous  parish 
priest.  When  we  think  of  a  religious  poet,  the  fancy 
calls  up  a  picture  of  George  Herbert  in  his  tiny 
church  at  Bemerton,  or  of  John  Keble  at  quiet 
Hursley,  or  of  John  Henry  Newman  coasting  along 


2  MEMOIR    OF  S.   J.    STONE 

Italian  shores.     Samuel    John   Stone,  however,  was 
not  only  a  poet,  but  also  an  East  End  parson. 

All  his  childhood  was  spent  in  the  depths  of  the 
country,  in  remote  Staffordshire  rectories.  From  the 
time  he  was  five  his  home  was  at  Colwich,  a  village 
which  lies  hard  by  the  water  meadows  of  the  Trent 
just  below  Cannock  Chase.  Cannock  Chase  is  a  wide 
^cretch  of  rolling  moorland,  all  about  the  edges  of 
which  there  are  little  rounded  heather -clad  hills, 
crowned  here  and  there  with  a  clump  of  Scotch  firs, 
alternating  with  softly -scooped -out  hollows  and 
combes,  which  would  very  easily  conceal  a  troop  of 
men.  Where  the  garment  of  heather  which  covers 
these  little  hills  has  been  torn  off,  or  the  hillside  has 
been  cut  open  by  the  hand  of  man,  yellow  gravel 
gleams  out  underneath.  Further  on  this  moorland 
country  becomes  wilder,  and  then  there  are  collieries, 
while  beyond  it  are  the  red  furnaces  of  the  Black 

This  was  just  the  sort  of  scenery  to  bring  out  all 
the  latent  poetry  of  a  romantic  lad's  nature,  and  it 
had  a  very  strong  influence  on  Stone,  an  influence  of 
which  he  has  left  a  record  in  the  poem  called  The 
Birdie,  which  gives  expression  to  his  boyish  love  of 
romance.  The  sloping  lawns  of  the  vicarage  garden 
at  Colwich,  the  river  with  its  swans  and  moorhens, 
the  little  rills  and  runnels  bubbling  up  in  tiny  sand 
fountains  amongst  the  hills,  were  amongst  his  earliest 


But  if  the  spell  of  the  hills  and  of  the  country- 
side helped  to  call  forth  in  him  something  of  the 
spirit  of  George  Herbert,  from  the  streams  he  soon 
learned  to  be,  what  he  remained  to  the  end  of  his 
life,  an  ardent  votary  of  Izaak  Walton.  The  sporting 
vein  in  him,  which  made  him  not  only  Piscator  but 
Venator,  had  plenty  of  scope  for  early  development. 
As  a  boy  he  was  "  always  doing  something  or  other 
with  gunpowder  or  firearms,"  or  climbing  dangerous 
trees,  or  tumbling  into  the  river.  He  was  full  of 
pluck,  and  full  to  the  brim  of  the  love  of  adventure. 
Even  at  an  early  age  these  qualities  were  allied  with 
the  imagination  and  the  idealism  of  a  poetical  nature, 
and  with  a  strong  strain  of  religious  feeling,  which 
came  out  in  childish  sermons  and  verse. 

His  father  was  a  learned  and  pious  Evangelical  of 
the  best  type,  who  had  taken  honours  at  Oxford  and 
then  settled  down  to  quiet  work  as  a  country  clergy- 
man. He  was  a  Hebrew  scholar  and  a  botanist ; 
but  what  marked  him  most  was,  it  was  said,  the 
quiet  repose  of  a  mind  which  rested  entirely  in  God, 
and  which  seemed  in  consequence  to  be  always 
stored  with  beautiful  thoughts.  Whilst  at  Whit- 
more  he  had  published  a  sacred  epic  in  six  books, 
and  in  later  days  he  was  the  compiler  of  a  hymn- 
book,  many  of  the  hymns  in  which  were  from  his 
own  pen. 

His  character  is  very  well  illustrated  by  a  story 
which  his  son  used  to  tell  of  him.     When  the  elder 

4  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

man  began  his  work  as  vicar  of  St.  Paul's,  Haggerston, 
there  was  an  endowment  of  only  £i^  per  annum, 
and  the  heavy  expenses  of  the  parish  became  a  great 
and  increasing  burden  upon  him.  "  He  kept  his 
quietness  of  mind,"  says  his  son,  "  in  steady  trust ; 
and  when  one  day,"  he  goes  on,  "  the  news  came  that 
the  Ecclesiastical  Commissioners  would  endow  the 
living  with  ;^300  a  year  and  build  a  vicarage,  I  well 
remember  how  he  was  the  only  one  of  us  unexcited. 
I  came  home  late  in  the  evening  and  heard  the 
recent  news,  and  went  up  to  his  study.  There  I 
found  my  father  reading  his  Hebrew  Bible  in  his 
usual  calm  mood,  and  he  only  replied  to  my  excited 
congratulations  by  saying — with  a  serenity  of  feeling 
and  expression  which  made  a  most  profound  impres- 
sion upon  my  mind — something  to  the  effect  that  the 
Lord  always  answers  prayer  and  makes  good  His 
promise  to  His  people  in  His  own  good  time.  And 
so  he  went  on  with  his  reading  with  the  quietude  of 
one  who,  having  been  sure  of  the  promise,  is  neither 
amazed  nor  excited  when  it  is  fulfilled." 

The  influence  of  the  father's  saintly  character 
remained  strong  upon  the  son  all  his  life  through. 
Meantime,  as  a  boy  he  was  encouraged  by  him  to 
give  himself  to  the  study  of  poetry  and  the  cultiva- 
tion of  a  literary  taste,  as  well  as  to  set  his  heart 
on  all  things  pure  and  noble.  From  his  mother,  of 
whom  it  was  said  that  "  wherever  she  was  there  was 
an  atmosphere  of  the  tenderest  care  and  love,"  he 


inherited  that  rich  store  of  sympathy  which  he  after- 
wards spent  so  lavishly  in  the  cure  of  souls. 

The  boy  had  a  sister  two  years  younger  than 
himself,  who  was  his  constant  companion  both  at 
work  and  at  play.  The  two  children  were  taught 
Latin  by  their  father,  whom  they  regarded  as  a  very 
storehouse  of  knowledge,  from  the  fact  that  he  had 
the  wisdom  to  answer,  or  to  try  to  answer,  all  the 
puzzling  questions  of  childhood  which  they  brought 
to  him,  and  indeed  showed  such  unfailing  readiness 
in  doing  so,  that  as  they  grew  older  they  used  to  refer 
to  him  in  talking  to  each  other  as  "  the  Dictionary." 
The  boy  had  little  other  formal  education  until  he 
went  to  the  Charterhouse. 

Both  he  and  his  sister,  however,  were  passionately 
fond  of  reading,  and  together  they  ranged  far  and 
wide  through  the  realm  of  letters.  Among  their 
favourite  books  were  the  Pilgt'im's  Progress  and  the 
Holy  War ;  they  devoured  Scott's  poetry,  and  of 
their  heroes  Mr.  Greatheart  shared  their  affections 
with  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  and  Masterman  Ready. 
But  it  was  first  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  afterwards 
Mrs.  Browning,  who  lent  the  glamour  which  the  boy 
longed  for  to  glorify  the  world  he  lived  in.  He 
peopled  the  Chase  with  many  a  flashing  pennon  and 
many  a  bonnet  and  tartan  as  he  went  roving  over 
it,  and  he  and  his  sister  had  privately  come  to  an 
agreement  as  to  the  exact  corner  by  the  Trent  which 
held  the  Swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 

6  MEMOIR   OF   S.   J.   STONE 

They  were  just  the  imaginative  sort  of  children 
to  find  plenty  of  romance  in  their  own  garden.  Had 
they  not  got  real  York  and  Lancaster  roses  in  it? 
Were  there  not  Canterbury  bells  to  remind  them 
of  Chaucer's  Pilgrims  ?  They  told  in  after  years 
how  they  longed  for  June  to  come  to  bring  the 
columbines,  with  the  pigeons  clustering  at  the  top 
of  their  stalks,  and  to  let  them  hurry  out  before 
breakfast  to  take  the  little  pointed  nightcaps  off  the 
orange  eschscholtzias. 

These  country  days  were  destined  to  be  brought 
to  an  abrupt  termination,  for  when  the  boy  was 
thirteen  his  father  accepted  a  curacy  in  a  north- 
western suburb  of  London.  It  was  a  doleful  change 
from  the  streams  and  heaths  of  Staffordshire.  To 
live  in  an  ugly  house  in  the  middle  of  a  plain  row, 
with  a  strip  of  sooty  earth  at  the  back,  calling  itself 
a  garden,  on  which  a  few  dusty  laurels  struggled 
to  exist,  was  at  first  a  terrible  shock !  The  feature- 
lessness,  the  monotony,  "  the  clotted  and  coagulated 
masses  of  houses,"  to  use  Ruskin's  phrase,  pressed 
on  the  lad's  spirit  like  one  of  Dante's  leaden  copes. 
"  Even  a  cathedral  was  not  a  cathedral."  After  the 
grace  of  Lichfield,  with  her  three  spires  lying  always 
reflected  in  the  minster  pool,  the  "  storied  windows 
richly  dight"  of  her  lady  chapel,  and  the  warm 
richness  of  her  carved  sandstone  portals,  it  is  perhaps 
not  to  be  wondered  at  that  St.  Paul's  seemed  a  cold 
and  lifeless  mass. 


St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  as  it  was  in  1852  and  for 
some  years  afterwards,  has  been  described  by  Canon 
Scott  Holland  as  "  a  magnificent  architectural  monu- 
ment waiting  in  dignified  renown  for  the  discovery 
of  its  activities.  Its  main  bulk,"  he  goes  on,  "lay 
practically  idle,  except  for  special  occasions  such 
as  the  festival  of  the  charity  children,  or  on  great 
public  functions  such  as  the  burial  of  a  hero.  At 
all  other  times,  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  its 
large  area,  cold,  naked,  and  unoccupied,  mooning 
sightseers  roam.ed  at  large.  Its  daily  services  had 
always  been  hidden  away  in  the  choir,  behind  the 
thick  organ  screen  against  which  Wren  had  so 
vehemently  protested.  There,  in  seclusion,  a  tiny 
body  of  cultivated  musicians  sang  to  a  sprinkled 
remnant  of  worshippers.  Everything  was  done  on 
the  smallest  scale,  and  much  was  mean  and  slovenly 
to  the  last  degree." 

Like  cathedral,  like  churches.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  the  type  of  service,  the  standard  of 
devotion,  the  conception  of  the  function  of  the  parish 
church  in  parochial  life  throughout  a  great  part  of 
London  only  too  faithfully  mirrored  the  ideal  which 
was  exhibited  in  the  cathedral.  It  was  no  more 
than  eight  years  before  this  that  Dean  Close,  the 
then  incumbent  of  Cheltenham,  had  declared  that 
the  "  devil  was  the  architect  and  builder  of  Gothic 
churches,"  and  only  one  since  Mr.  Bennett,  of 
St.  Paul's,  Knightsbridge,  had  been  called  upon  by 

8  MEMOIR  OF   S.   J.   STONE 

Bishop  Blomfield  to  resign  his  living  as  a  conse- 
quence of  the  No  Popery  riots  caused  by  his  having 
introduced  into  his  church  such  unheard-of  things 
as  a  choral  service,  the  eastward  position,  and  an 
altar  cross. 

In  a  word,  the  waves  of  the  Church  revival  of  the 
middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  were  at  this  period 
just  beginning  to  flow  out  from  the  study  and  the 
oratory  into  the  street. 

The  newly  awakened  devotional  spirit,  so  largely 
inspired  by  Keble  through  the  publication  of  the 
Christian  Year  in  1827,  was  being  translated  into 
active  parochial  work  by  Dr.  Hook,  "the  apostle  of 
the  Church  to  the  great  middle  class,"  as  Dean 
Church  has  called  him,  who  was  Vicar  of  Leeds  from 
1827  to  1859.  The  boy  who  had  now  come  with  his 
father  and  mother  from  the  retirement  of  a  country 
vicarage  into  the  stir  of  London  was  destined  to 
combine  in  his  lifework  both  aspects  of  the  revival. 
Like  Keble,  he  grew  to  be  one  of  the  poets  of  the 
Church ;  he  became,  like  Hook,  a  devoted  parish  priest. 

Meantime  he  was  sent  as  a  day-boy  to  the  Charter- 
house, still  at  that  time  in  its  original  home  in  the 
City.  Charterhouse,  with  its  Poor  Brethren  and  its 
air  of  venerable  seclusion,  had  a  charm  which  is 
lacking  to  most  public  schools.  He  was  as  devoted 
to  it  all  his  life  long  as  Thackeray  was,  and  all  who 
knew  him  would  bear  witness  to  the  truth  of  the 
description  of  himself  in  one  of  his  sonnets  as 



"Unchanged  in  this,  at  least,  from  boy  to  man. 
That  I  am  heart  and  soul  Carthusian." 

Thus,  when  shortly  after  his  leaving  school  a  great 
football  match  was  played  between  eight  of  Eton 
and  Harrow  and  seven  of  "  The  World,"  Stone  wrote 
to  the  papers  in  great  pride  and  glory  to  inform  all 
and  sundry  that  no  less  than  six  of  "  The  World's  " 
seven  were  Carthusians.  For  years  he  never  missed 
the  annual  Charterhouse  dinner,  and  no  haven  of 
refuge  could  have  brought  him  more  peace  than  those 
old  walls,  to  which  years  afterwards  he  returned  to 
live  out  the  remainder  of  his  days. 

At  the  Charterhouse  he  went  up  the  school  with 
Sir  Richard  Jebb,  who  used,  as  it  is  not  surprising  to 
learn,  to  be  ahead  of  him  in  classics,  but  divided  with 
him  the  honours  of  the  English  Poem,  the  subject 
being  The  Alhanibra.  He  was  a  steady  worker  who 
always  kept  his  place,  but  his  chief  distinction  was 
his  faculty  for  verse.  Though  full  of  spirits,  he  seems 
never  to  have  got  into  school  difficulties  or  scrapes, 
and  left  with  a  high  character.  He  used  to  take  his 
friends  home  with  him  to  Hackney  and  for  boating 
expeditions  on  the  Lea,  where  he  learned  to  handle 
an  oar.  He  left  school  with  a  scholarship  in  1858, 
and  shortly  afterwards  won  a  prize  offered  by  the 
editor  of  a  paper  called  the  Portico  for  a  poem  on  Sir 
Henry  Havelock,  himself  a  Carthusian.  He  was,  in 
fact,  while  still  at  school  already  graduating  in  verse, 
so  that  to  the  tale  of  Carthusian  poets — Crashaw, 

lo  MEMOIR   OF   S.   J.   STONE 

Lovelace,  Addison,  John  Wesley — there  is  now  to  be 
added  the  name  of  Samuel  John  Stone. 

From  Charterhouse  he  proceeded  to  Pembroke 
College,  Oxford,  where  he  had  the  rooms  in  the 
tower  just  above  those  of  Dr.  Johnson.  At  Pem- 
broke he  quickly  took  to  the  river,  and  soon  became 
captain  of  his  boat,  which  he  stroked  more  than  once. 
He  was  also  an  ardent  volunteer,  for  those  were  the 
days  of  the  first  beginnings  of  the  volunteer  move- 
ment. The  love  of  athletics  and  the  patriotic  senti- 
ment were  both  characteristic.  Years  afterwards  in 
London  he  started  a  "  Pembroke  Rowing  Club "  on 
the  Lea,  which  still  flourishes,  and  till  the  very  end 
of  his  life  he  was  profoundly  stirred  by  any  great 
national  event,  and  found  a  ready  expression  in  verse 
for  the  feelings  which  it  excited  in  him. 

Of  all  the  gifts  which  Oxford  brings,  the  friend- 
ships which  are  made  there  are  amongst  the  most 
precious.  Stone  was  always  enthusiastic  in  his 
friendships,  and  to  those  which  he  had  already 
formed  at  Charterhouse  he  now  soon  added  fresh 
ones,  some  of  which  lasted  with  unimpaired  warmth 
throughout  his  life.  He  would  often  in  after  years 
recall  these  friendships  of  his  Oxford  boating  days  by 
quoting  the  well-known  lines  in  Tennyson's  Ulysses : 

"  My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd  and  wrought  and  thought  with  me — 
That  ever  with  a  frohc  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old ; 


Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done. 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods." 

At  Pembroke,  Johnson's  "  nest  of  singing-birds," 
the  college  of  Beaumont  and  Shenstone,  not  to 
speak  of  Johnson  himself  or  less-known  poets, 
Stone's  poetical  faculty  continued  to  develop.  He 
wrote  more  than  once  for  the  Newdigate,  which  he 
never  succeeded  in  winning,  though  he  was  proxime 
accessit  in  the  year  after  it  had  been  gained  by  his 
cousin,  John  Addington  Symonds.  He  was  also 
connected  with  one  at  least  of  those  fugitive  collec- 
tions of  verse  which  appear  periodically  in  Oxford, 
and  it  was  Alma  Mater  who  inspired  two  of  the 
poems  in  his  earliest  volume,  Down  Streajn  to  London 
and  Good-bye  to  Oxford.  They  express  what  a  score 
of  Oxford  poets  from  Clough  and  Matthew  Arnold 
onwards  have  expressed,  on  the  one  hand  the  "  in- 
effable charm  "  of  the  "  beautiful  city  .  .  .  steeped  in 
sentiment  as  she  lies,  spreading  her  gardens  to  the 
moonlight,  and  whispering  from  her  towers  the  last 
enchantments  of  the  Middle  Age,"  and  on  the  other 
the  "joy  of  eventful  living"  which  possesses  the 
healthy  undergraduate  in  those  halcyon  years  of 
University  life.  But  in  the  latter  of  the  two  poems  a 
note  is  struck  which  is  not  always  heard  in  young 
Oxford  verse,  a  note  which  became  the  keynote 
of  all  his  words  and  all  his  actions,  the  note  of 
intense  devotion  to  his  Mother  Church. 

12  MEMOIR   OF   S.   J.    STONE 

During  part  of  his  time  at  Oxford  Stone  was 
disturbed  to  some  extent  by  the  Essays  mid  Reviews 
controversy;  but  the  disturbance  was  of  short  dura- 
tion, and  before  he  had  taken  his  degree  the  ques- 
tionings raised  in  his  mind  by  the  Liberal  theology 
had  ceased,  and  he  had  planted  his  feet  firmly  in  the 
old  paths  which  Hooker  and  Ken  and  Keble  had 
trodden,  and  in  those  paths  he  continued  to  walk 
from  that  time  forth  with  ever-deepening  confidence 
and  assurance. 

While  he  was  still  at  Oxford,  in  fact,  all  the 
energies  of  his  ardent  and  enthusiastic  nature  were 
gradually  being  turned  into  one  deep  channel,  and 
after  he  went  down  it  was  not  long  before  he  had 
definitely  made  up  his  mind  to  take  Holy  Orders, 
He  went  for  a  year  to  a  tutorship  at  High  Wycombe, 
and  there  he  received  a  fresh  impress  from  the  per- 
sonality of  Bishop  Wilberforce,  under  whose  influence 
he  had  already  fallen  at  Oxford.  Wilberforce  came 
to  hold  a  confirmation  at  High  Wycombe,  of  which 
Stone  has  left  an  account  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  which 
is  one  more  testimony  to  the  spiritual  power  shown 
by  the  Bishop  on  such  occasions.  He  speaks  of  the 
Bishop's  directness  with  the  candidates,  of  how  he 
bade  them  keep  their  eyes  on  him,  as  he  told  them, 
with  his  marvellous  power  of  narration,  of  the  early 
martyrs,  of  how  they  were  asked  tauntingly,  "  Do 
you  believe  in  Jesus  Christ?"  and  of  how  they 
answered,  with  their  faces  flashing  with  joy — "  and 


his  voice,"  says  Stone,  "was  a  diapason  as  he  said  the 
words — '  I  do  !  I  do  ! '  "  After  the  answer  of  the 
candidates  the  whole  congregation  were  invited  to 
kneel  in  silent  prayer  for  them  before  the  Imposition 
of  Hands,  and  "  the  whole  place  and  people,"  he 
writes,  "  seemed  baptized  with  the  Spirit  of  God." 
After  the  service  was  over  he  spent  the  rest  of  the 
day  in  a  long  walk  with  a  friend,  and  from  that  time 
his  most  earnest  desire  was  to  seek  Ordination  at  the 
hands  of  the  Bishop,  who,  he  wrote,  "  stands  before 
all  men,  except  my  father,  in  my  reverence  and 
affection."  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  impression 
produced  by  this  and  other  confirmations  held  by 
Bishop  Wilberforce  had  a  very  powerful  effect  in 
shaping  Stone's  parochial  ideals.  Confirmation,  with 
him,  was  the  great  opportunity  in  a  parish  priest's 
dealings  with  his  flock,  the  formation  of  an  intelligent 
and  devout  body  of  communicants  his  highest  work. 
His  desires  saw  their  fulfilment  before  many 
months  were  over.  At  that  time  a  year  at  a  theo- 
logical college  was  not  yet  the  common  preliminary 
to  Ordination  which  it  has  since  become,  and  in  later 
life  Stone  used  to  regret  that  he  had  not  had  the 
advantage  of  it.  He  read  quietly  and  steadily  by 
himself,  and  the  result  was  that  he  was  chosen  as 
Gospeller  when  on  St.  Matthew's  Day,  1862,  he  was 
ordained  by  Bishop  Wilberforce  in  Lavington  Church 
to  the  curacy  of  Windsor. 




WINDSOR  was  a  place  which  exactly  suited 
the  young  man,  and  appealed  to  almost 
every  part  of  his  nature.  The  Vicar  of  Windsor 
was  Canon  Ellison,  well  known  as  the  founder  of 
the  Church  of  England  Temperance  Society,  which 
first  saw  the  light  there  a  few  years  later.  There 
was  a  large  parish  with  plenty  of  work  to  do,  both 
amongst  the  labouring  classes  and  also  amongst 
those  in  better  circumstances.  There  were  good 
Church  schools  and  all  sorts  of  parochial  organisa- 
tions. He  found  pleasant  society  and  a  delightful 
country.  Past  the  town  flowed  the  river  on  which 
he  had  spent  so  many  hours,  and  above  it  the  Castle 
reared  its  stately  walls,  a  perpetual  reminder  of  the 
antiquity  of  the  Throne,  to  which  he  was  always 
attached  with  the  most  passionate  loyalty.  Such  a 
place  could  not  fail  to  be  an  inspiration  to  a  man  of 
Stone's  nature,  and  during  his  seven  and  a  half  years 
at  Windsor  he  did  some  of  his  not  least  successful 



pastoral  work  and  wrote  many  of  the  best  of  his 
hymns  and  poems. 

The  centre  of  his  work  at  Windsor  was  a  little 
mission  church  in  the  outlying  district  of  Spital. 
The  mission  church  was  the  chapel  of  the  cemetery, 
and  when  he  was  put  in  charge  of  it  he  found  it  a 
cold  and  lifeless  place,  as  even  now  many  of  our 
cemetery  chapels  are  wont  to  be.  He  set  himself 
with  his  usual  vigour  to  beautify  it,  and  before  very 
long  succeeded  in  effecting  a  complete  transformation. 

During  the  very  early  days  of  his  work  at  Windsor 
an  incident  occurred  which  may  be  related  here. 
There  was  a  certain  idle  corner  on  the  way  from  the 
school  to  the  church  which  was  the  favourite  resort 
of  the  rough  lads  of  the  place,  who  used  to  annoy 
the  children  on  their  way  to  church.  One  Sunday 
as  he  went  by  he  saw  one  of  his  little  girls  doubled 
up  with  pain  from  a  blow  given  her  by  a  big,  hulking 
fellow.  All  Stone's  impulsive  chivalry  at  once  caught 
fire.  Perhaps  he  remembered  how,  under  similar 
circumstances,  Keats  had  given  a  butcher  a  thrashing. 
At  any  rate,  he  strode  up  to  the  young  rough,  and 
not  only  gave  him  a  piece  of  his  mind,  but  a  sound 
cuff  to  finish  up  with.  The  fellow  was  so  ill-advised 
as  to  strike  him  back,  whereupon  Stone  fell  upon 
him  like  an  avenging  angel,  and  literally  beat  him 
black  and  blue.  He  said  afterwards  that  he  was 
thankful  that  he  had  nothing  but  nature's  weapons 
at   hand,   so    much   carried    away   was    he    by   his 

1 6  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

righteous  indignation.  Fortunately  his  action  was 
endorsed  by  the  lad's  parents  and  also  by  the  police, 
and  it  had  a  very  salutary  effect  on  the  rough 
element  in  the  district,  but  he  was  himself  the  first 
to  recognise  that  his  knight-errantry  had  taken  a 
wrong  form,  and  to  resolve  never  again  to  be  judge 
and  executioner  at  the  same  time. 

Henceforward  he  found  more  legitimate  means  of 
disposing  of  his  superfluous  physical  energy.  "  I  am 
getting  up  my  strength  and  muscular  condition,"  he 
writes,  "in  an  apostolic  manner — on  the  water  and 
among  the  fishes."  We  get  a  glimpse  of  him  at 
this  time  on  his  holiday  in  the  garden  of  a  Sussex 
vicarage,  where  he  was  helping  his  father,  who  was 
acting  as  locum  tenens  there.  He  was  reading  for  his 
priest's  orders,  and  was  keenly  interested  in  the 
Fathers,  whose  acquaintance  he  was  making  for  the 
first  time.  In  the  hot  weather  he  was  to  be  found 
lying  on  his  back  in  the  orchard,  a  gun  by  his  side, 
and  Jacobson's  Apostolic  Fathers  on  his  knee.  When- 
ever there  was  a  chance  of  a  shot  at  something, 
"  down  went  the  Fathers  and  up  went  the  gun." 

It  would  be  a  very  great  mistake  to  suppose  that 
Stone  was  merely  what  used  to  be  called  a  "muscular 
Christian."  A  strong  and  athletic  frame  was  coupled 
with  a  highly  sensitive  and  emotional  temperament, 
a  temperament  so  responsive  and  sympathetic  that, 
while  full  of  virile  force  and  energy,  it  had  at  the 
same  time  all  the  tenderness  of  a  woman.     Such  a 


nature  was  bound  to  feel  the  stress  and  strain  of 
work,  and  especially  of  parochial  work,  in  an  unusual 
degree.  In  later  years  he  paid  dearly  for  it.  "  You 
have  the  muscles  of  a  prize-fighter,"  said  Sir  William 
Jenner,  when  he  went  to  consult  him,  "but,"  he 
added,  "the  nerves  of  a  violin." 

It  was  just  these  qualities,  however,  which  gave 
Stone  his  great  influence  as  a  parish  priest.  There  is 
evidence  that  while  he  was  still  in  his  first  curacy  his 
spiritual  powers  were  considerable.  His  pastoral 
instincts  were  from  the  first  quick  to  assert  them- 
selves, and  he  soon  began  to  have  that  personal  hold 
on  those  with  whom  he  was  brought  into  contact 
which  so  remarkably  distinguished  his  work  in  East 
London.  Thirty  years  afterwards  a  member  of  one 
of  his  Windsor  Bible-classes  wrote  to  him  recalling 
the  class,  and  testifying  to  the  permanence  of  his 

In  the  day-schools  he  took  the  greatest  delight, 
especially  in  the  infants'  school,  and  he  was  beloved 
both  by  children  and  teachers.  He  had  inherited  his 
love  of  children  from  his  father,  to  whom  he  used  to 
apply  the  words  of  the  poem  in  the  Christian  Year 
for  Innocents'  Day,  saying  that  he,  like  his  Master, 

"  Ever  lov'd  to  trace 
"  The  '  innocent  brightness '  of  an  infant's  face  " 

— words  that  were  as  applicable  to  the  son  as  they 
were  to  the  father.     When  he  left  Windsor  he  spoke 
in  his  farewell  words  of  "those  dear  children  of  the 

1 8  MEMOIR  OF  S.   J.   STONE 

schools,  whom  I  love,  not  least,  in  the  Lord,"  and 
through  all  his  after  work  the  children  had  a  fore- 
most place  in  his  thoughts  and  his  affections. 

He  was  fond  of  telling  the  story  of  what  he  used 
to  say  was  one  of  the  few  cases  in  which  he  had  come 
across  a  parent  who  objected  to  the  religious  teaching 
in  a  Church  day-school,  and  of  his  successful  re- 
moving of  his  scruples.  It  appears  that  one  morning 
when  he  was  in  the  schools  at  Windsor  an  angry 
father  asked  to  see  him,  who  began  to  complain  that 
his  child  was  taught  the  Catechism,  which  he,  as  a 
Dissenter,  objected  to  his  learning.  By  way  of 
answer  Stone  asked  the  man  if  he  had  ever  read  the 
Catechism,  and  on  his  replying  that  he  had  not,  per- 
suaded him  to  take  a  copy  home  with  him,  and  to 
come  again  and  give  him  his  opinion  about  it.  In  a 
few  days  the  man  reappeared,  and  on  being  asked 
the  result  of  his  studies  replied,  "  Why,  sir,  I  find  it 
tells  him  his  duty  towards  God  and  his  duty  towards 
his  neighbour.  Teach  it  him,  sir,  and  if  he  won't 
learn  it,  you  wallop  him  ! " 

There  was  another  and  a  most  important  side 
of  his  work  at  Windsor,  and  this  was  what  he  began 
to  do  there  for  the  Church  at  large  through  his 
hymns  and  sacred  poems.  Allusion  has  already 
been  made  to  the  manner  in  which  his  father  fostered 
his  boyish  love  of  poetry  and  to  his  early  enthusiasm 
for  Scott  and  for  Mrs.  Browning.  Later  on  had 
come   the   influence   of  Tennyson,   which   acted    so 



powerfully  on  most  of  the  poets  of  the  middle  of  the 
Victorian  era.  His  inspiration  is  manifest  in  a  good 
deal  of  Stone's  poetical  work.  The  idealism  of  the 
Idylls  of  the  King,  that  epic  of  the  human  soul,  as 
Tennyson  conceived  it,  took  hold  of  his  being,  and 
King  Arthur,  viewed  as  the  embodiment  of  the  soul's 
battle  for  whatsoever  is  pure  and  lovely  and  of  good 
report,  became  half-canonised  in  his  imagination. 
It  was  not  wholly  in  jest  that  he  compared  his  many 
fights  at  Haggerston  with  the  encroaching  School 
Board  to  Arthur's  "  nine  great  battles  in  the  west," 
and  his  delight  was  extreme  when  a  friend  gave  him 
a  beautiful  little  copy,  carved  in  wood,  of  the  noble 
statue  of  King  Arthur  from  the  monument  of 
Maximilian  I.  at  Innsbruck. 

Knight-errantry,  in  fact,  had  a  perpetual  fascina- 
tion for  him.  He  was  always  ready,  as  we  have 
seen,  to  take  up  arms  on  behalf  of  a  child  or  a 
woman.  So  too  when  he  wrote  one  can  imagine 
him  ready  to  begin  like  Keats  : — 

" Lo  !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry; 
For  large  white  plumes  are  dancing  in  mine  eye." 

But  just  as  the  militant  instincts  in  his  nature  came 
to  be  subordinated  to  the  pastoral,  so  in  his  poetry 
his  knight -errant  becomes  The  Knight  of  Inter- 
cession, and  his  idylls  are  not  idylls  of  the  camp  and 
court  but  of  the  country  parish. 

There  was  yet  another  poetical  influence  which 
left  its   mark  on  Stone's  verse,  and   that   was   the 

20  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

influence  of  Keble.  As  he  was  thoroughly  in  accord 
with  Keble's  ecclesiastical  position,  the  Christian 
Year  appealed  to  him  as  n:iuch  as  it  could  have 
appealed  to  anyone  who  belonged  to  the  generation 
after  Keble.  The  best  of  its  poems  he  would  con- 
stantly quote  in  the  pulpit,  and  in  later  days  he 
probably  seldom  let  a  Good  Friday  pass  without 
reciting  in  the  course  of  his  sermon  some  part  of 
the  poem  for  that  day. 

It  was  no  doubt  the  scheme  of  the  Christian  Year 
which  suggested  to  Stone  the  idea  of  illustrating  the 
Apostles'  Creed  by  writing  a  series  of  hymns  upon 
its  several  Articles.  In  his  preface  to  the  Christian 
Year  Keble  had  said  : — 

"  The  object  of  the  present  publication  will  be 
attained,  if  any  person  find  assistance  from  it  in 
bringing  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings  into  more 
entire  unison  with  those  recommended  and  ex- 
emplified in  the  Prayer-book." 

Stone  had  found  that  many,  especially  of  the 
cottagers,  used  the  Creed  in  their  private  prayers, 
and  in  the  preface  to  his  little  book  he  mentions 
this  fact  and  appeals  to  the  experience  of  other 
clergy,  who,  he  says,  "  cannot  but  feel  how  this 
excellent  use,  as  also  its  utterance  in  public  worship, 
is  too  often  accompanied  by  a  very  meagre  compre- 
hension of  the  breadth  and  depth  of  meaning  con- 
tained in  each  Article  of  the  Confession  of  Faith. 
Such  a  feeling,"  he  continues,  "  first  suggested  to  the 


author  the  probable  usefulness  of  a  simple  and 
attractive  explanation  of  the  Creed  in  the  popular 
form  of  a  series  of  hymns,  such  as  might  be  sung 
or  said  in  private  devotion,  at  family  prayer,  or  in 
public  worship." 

In  those  days  it  was  the  custom  to  give  to  a 
collection  of  sacred  verse  the  name  of  Lyra.  Besides 
the  Lyra  Apostolica  and  the  Lyra  Innocentium,  there 
were  the  Lyra  Messianica,  the  Lyra  Eucharistica, 
and  others.  Stone  accordingly  called  the  little  book, 
which  appeared  at  Christmas,  1865,  by  the  name  of 
Lyra  Fideliuni. 

In  this  small  volume,  put  forth  by  a  curate  who 
had  only  been  three  years  in  Holy  Orders,  were  two 
hymns  which  are  now  familiar  everywhere.  The 
ninth  Article  of  the  Creed — The  Holy  Catholic 
Church:  The  Communion  of  Saints — was  illustrated 
by  a  hymn  upon  "The  Nature  of  the  Universal 
Church  and  the  Fellowship  of  the  Saints."  The 
hymn  was  The  Church's  one  Foundation.  Similarly 
the  tenth  Article,  The  Forgiveness  of  Sins,  was  illus- 
trated by  a  hymn  upon  "The  Remission  of  Sins." 
This  was  Weary  of  earth.  The  other  ten  hymns, 
although  one  or  two  of  them  are  to  be  found  in  the 
hymn-books,  have  never  come  into  general  use,  nor 
are  they  likely  to  do  so.  Some  of  them  are  not 
without  considerable  merit,  but  nearly  all  exhibit  the 
faults  from  which  only  the  best  hymns  are  exempt. 

For,  in  point  of  fact,  it  is  one  of  the  rarest  things 

22  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

in  the  world  to  find  a  really  perfect  hymn.  A  certain 
poise  of  mind,  a  certain  holy  tact,  if  one  may  use 
such  an  expression,  is  necessary  in  order  to  avoid  the 
pitfalls  which  beset  the  hymn-writer's  feet.  The 
common  criticism  which  an  educated  man  will  make 
upon  a  hymn  is  that  it  is  mere  doggerel.  That  is 
no  doubt  too  often  the  case,  but  then  this  criticism 
does  not  by  any  means  go  all  the  way.  It  is  true 
that  one  of  the  first  requisites  in  a  hymn  is  that  it 
should  be  the  work  of  a  poet,  but  it  is  to  be 
remembered  that  it  is  not  merely  as  a  poem  that  a 
hymn  is  to  be  judged,  nor  even  merely  as  a  religious 
poem.  Indeed,  one  of  the  faults  of  many  hymns  is 
— though  it  may  sound  paradoxical  to  say  so — that 
they  are  too  poetical.  Sometimes  this  is  seen  in  an 
excessive  quaintness  of  expression,  the  quaintness 
of  George  Herbert  or  of  Christina  Rossetti ;  some- 
times in  the  too  frequent  use  of  metaphor  and  simile 
and  of  words  and  phrases  which,  however  apt  and 
beautiful  in  themselves,  belong  too  exclusively  to  the 
domain  of  poetry. 

This  may  best  be  seen  by  an  example.  No  one 
had  more  of  the  true  spirit  of  the  hymn-writer  than 
Mrs.  Alexander.     Such  hymns  as 

"  There  is  a  green  hill  far  away  " 


"Jesus  calls  us  o'er  the  tumult" 

have  been  caught  up  into  the  main  current  of 
hymnody.     But  being  herself  a  true  poet  and  the 


wife  of  a  poet,  she  had  the  defects  of  her  quahties, 

and  sometimes  would  introduce  the  special  language 

of  poetry  where  we  feel  at  once  that  a  simpler  strain 

is  needed.     Such  lines  as 

"  Give  us  Thy  grace  to  rise  above 
The  glare  of  this  world's  smelting-fires  " 

might  be  well  enough  in  a  religious  poem ;  they  are  a 
distinct  blot  in  a  hymn. 

There  is  a  quite  opposite  fault,  which  chiefly  besets 
those  hymn-writers  whose  first  aim  it  is  to  make  the 
hymn  a  vehicle  for  teaching  the  great  truths  of 
religion.  The  hymns  of  such  writers  tend  to  become 
so  dogmatic  as  to  be  nothing  else  than  miniature 
treatises  of  theology.  The  Latin  hymn-writers, 
having  a  language  at  their  command  which  is  un- 
equalled in  its  power  of  exact  and  terse  expression, 
revelled  in  this  sort  of  composition ;  in  the  greatest 
of  them  there  are  heights  of  grandeur  and  depths  of 
pathos  worthy  of  Isaiah  himself.  Unfortunately  a 
large  part  of  the  numerous  Latin  hymns  in  our 
books  are  spoiled  in  the  course  of  translation — which 
is  indeed  an  almost  impossible  process  in  the  case  of 
a  Latin  hymn — so  that  it  is  hardly  fair  to  charge 
them  with  being  cold  and  prosaic.  One  of  the 
greatest  of  all,  the  Dies  Irae,  becomes  a  shadow  only 
of  the  original,  for  what  Trench  calls  "  the  solemn 
effect  of  the  triple  rhyme,  which  has  been  likened  to 
blow  following  blow  of  the  hammer  on  the  anvil," 
simply  cannot  be  reproduced  in  English,  because  we 

24  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

have  so  few  trisyllabic  rhymes.  Many  translators 
have  tried  it  in  more  or  less  current  versions,  and  the 
result  is  of  the  baldest.  Stone  was  fairly  successful 
in  his  translations  from  Thomas  a  Kempis,  one  of 
which  is  included  in  this  selection,  but  in  his  original 
hymns  the  truth  is  that  through  his  anxiety  to  be 
dogmatic  he  sometimes  lost  his  inspiration. 

Yet  a  third  fault  is  conspicuous  in — one  is  almost 
tempted  to  say — a  majority  of  hymns.  That  fault  is 
an  excess  of  sentiment.  Now  if  there  is  one  thing 
needful  in  a  hymn  it  is  devotional  feeling,  the  accent 
of  personal  conviction.  The  writer  must  be  able  to 
give  the  tender  colouring  of  emotion  to  his  theme, 
whatever  that  theme  may  be.  But  religious  emotion, 
if  not  curbed  and  controlled,  may  on  the  one  hand 
shoot  up  into  unmeaning  ecstasy  and  on  the  other 
descend  into  feeble  sentimentality.  Beautiful  as  is 
the  Rhythm  of  St.  Bernard,  and  possibly  congruous 
as  it  may  have  been  to  the  times  and  the  circum- 
stances in  which  it  was  composed,  who  can  doubt 
that  it  is  grotesquely  inappropriate  to  bid  a  general 
congregation  to  sing — 

"  For  thee,  O  dear,  dear  country, 
Mine  eyes  their  vigils  keep  ; 
For  very  love,  beholding 
Thy  happy  name  they  weep." 

At  the  date  when  Stone  began  to  write,  the 
Rhythm  had  been  only  recently  translated  into 
English  by  Neale,  and  the  different  portions  of  it — 


Brief  life  is  here  our  portion,  feriisalent  the  golden, 
For  thee,  O  dear,  dear  country — were  being  sung 
everywhere.  It  is  probable  that  it  had  a  not  altogether 
favourable  effect  upon  his  hymn-writing. 

But  whatever  the  flaws  to  be  found  in  some  of 
Stone's  hymns,  their  positive  merits  are  very  con- 
siderable. Their  fire  and  ardour,  their  tenderness 
and  reality  of  devotion,  are  conspicuous.  The  two 
hymns  especially  by  which  he  has  come  to  be  chiefly 
known  as  a  hymn-writer  are  worthy  representatives 
of  the  two  great  types  of  hymns — The  Church'' s  one 
Foundation  of  the  objective  hymns,  the  hymns  which 
sing  of  the  glory  of  God  and  of  His  great  purposes 
for  mankind,  Weary  of  earth  of  those  of  a  subjective 
order,  the  hymns  of  personal  devotion,  in  which  the 
soul  pours  itself  out  before  its  Maker.  Both  classes 
have  their  prototypes  in  the  Psalms,  and  no  better 
praise  could  be  given  to  these  two  hymns  than  to  say 
they  breathe  much  of  the  spirit  of  the  Psalmists.  In 
The  Church's  one  Foundation  we  seem  to  hear  the 
accents  of  him  who  wrote — 

"  God  is  in  the  midst  of  her,  therefore  shall  she  not  be  re- 
moved : 
God  shall  help  her,  and  that  right  early." 

In  Weary  of  earth  there  is  the  same  cry  of  self- 
abasement  which  has  its  most  perfect  expression  in 
the  Miserere. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  Weary  of  earth,  the 
main   idea  of   which  was   taken   from   a  sermon   of 

26  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

Bishop  Jeune's,  was  written  wiiile  the  author  was 
suffering  from  an  attack  of  severe  physical  pain. 
Like  the  Aleditation  in  a  Night  of  Pain,  which  he 
wrote  in  the  Charterhouse  during  the  constant  suffer- 
ing of  the  last  year  of  his  life,  it  is  a  testimony  to 
the  sacramental  virtue  which  pain  discloses  when  it 
visits  a  religious  nature.  It  ranks  with  Abide  with  me, 
d.r\djesu,  lover  of  my  soul,  as  one  of  those  hymns  which 
have  a  vis  medicatrix  about  them,  and  which  are  not 
so  much  for  use  in  the  public  worship  of  the  Church 
as  in  the  private  devotions  of  her  sons  and  daughters, 
and  most  especially  in  her  ministrations  to  the  sick, 
the  penitent,  and  the  departing. 

"  I  am  personally  most  thankful,"  said  Stone, 
"  about  Weary  of  earth,  because  of  the  private  testi- 
monies I  have  had  of  its  use  in  bringing  home  to 
individual  souls  the  doctrine  of  the  Atonement.  One 
such  was  to  this  effect :  a  poor  dying  woman  told  a 
lady  who  visited  her  daily  that  her  favourite  verse, 
*  the  lines  that  comfort  me  and  m.ake  me  ready  and 
happy  to  go,'  was  the  fourth,  beginning — 

'"  It  is  the  voice  of  Jesus  that  I  hear.'" 

It  may  be  added  that  the  comfort  which  the  hymn 
gave  to  another  deathbed  brought  Stone  one  of  his 
most  constant  and  valued  helpers,  who,  before  un- 
known to  him,  sought  him  out  and  became  the 
devoted  friend  of  his  parish  and  the  supporter  of 
every  good  work  in  it. 


The  hymn  written  for  the  Article,  "  The  Holy 
Catholic  Church :  the  Communion  of  Saints,"  was, 
as  has  already  been  said.  The  ClmrcJi's  one  Founda- 
tion. All  the  twelve  hymns  had  printed  against 
each  line  a  verse  of  Holy  Scripture.  A  sound 
scriptural  groundwork  is  without  doubt  an  import- 
ant essential  in  a  hymn,  and  a  comparison  of  the 
texts  out  of  which  the  first  verse  of  The  ChurcJUs 
one  Foundation  is  woven  with  the  verse  opposite 
them  will  show  how  successfully  Stone  has  em- 
ployed that  groundwork  in  this  the  most  famous  of 
his  hymns. 

"The  Church's  one  Foundation        "Other  foundation  can    no 
Is  Jesus  Christ  her  Lord  ;     man  lay  than  that  is  laid,  which 

is  Jesus  Christ." 

She  is  His  new  creation,  "  Except  a  man  be  born  of 

By  water  and  the  Word  :  water  and  of   the    Spirit,  he 

cannot  enter  into  the  Kingdom 
of  God." 

From   heaven    He   came  and        "  Even  as  Christ  also  loved 

sought  her  the  Church,  and  gave  Himself 

To  be  His  holy  Bride,  for  it,  that  He  might  sanctify 

and  cleanse  it." 

With   His   own   Blood   He  "  The  Church  of  God,  which 

bought  her,  He  purchased  with    His  own 

And  for  her  life  He  died."         Blood." 

There  were  originally  two  more  verses  than  there 
are  at  present.  The  third  verse,  which  ran  thus,  has 
been  omitted — 

28  MEMOIR    iW  S.   J.    STONE 

"The  Church  shall  never  perish  ! 

Her  dear  Lord  to  defend, 
To  guide,  sustain,  and  cherish, 

Is  with  her  to  the  end. 
Though  there  be  those  who  hate  her, 

And  false  sons  in  her  pale, 
Against  or  foe  or  traitor 

She  ever  shall  prevail  " 

and  the  last  two  verses  have  been  thrown  into  one. 
They  were  as  follows — 

"  Yet  she  on  earth  hath  union 

With  God  the  Three  in  One, 
And  mystic  sweet  communion 

With  those  whose  rest  is  won. 
With  all  her  sons  and  daughters 

Who,  by  the  Master's  Hand 
Led  through  the  deathly  waters, 

Repose  in  Eden-land. 

*'  O  happy  ones  and  holy  ! 

Lord,  give  us  grace  that  we 
Like  them,  the  meek  and  lowly. 

On  high  may  dwell  with  Thee  : 
There,  past  the  border  mountains, 

Where  in  sweet  vales  the  Bride 
With  Thee  by  living  fountains 

For  ever  shall  abide  ! " 

The  hymn  has  undoubtedly  gained  by  compres- 
sion. In  its  altered  shape  it  was  included  in  the  first 
Appendix  to  Hymns  A  ncient  and  Modern,  which  was 
published  in  1868,  set  to  Sebastian  Wesley's  tune 
Aurelia,  which  was  written  for  it  and  is  now  indis- 
solubly  connected  with  it. 


The  Churches  one  Foundation  soon  sprang  into 
universal  notice.  It  was  sung  on  December  23rd, 
1869,  at  the  enthronement  of  Bishop  Wilberforce  at 
Winchester,  when  the  Times,  quoting  the  second  and 
third  verses,  observed  that  "  the  words,  though  drawn 
from  one  of  our  oldest  collections,"  had  "a  singular 
appropriateness  to  the  present  occasion."  This  very 
complimentary  error  on  the  part  of  the  Times  gives 
the  key  to  the  success  of  the  hymn.  The  hymn  said 
what  English  Church  people  had  been  learning  for 
some  time  past  to  feel  about  the  Church,  after  genera- 
tions of  forgetfulness.  Now,  when  it  was  said,  and 
everybody  found  themselves  singing  the  words,  they 
came  home  with  the  force  of  familiarity,  because  they 
were  recognised  as  the  expression  of  what  had  been 
for  so  long  the  inarticulate  faith  of  multitudes  of 
people,  who  had  only  been  waiting  for  a  vates  sacer 
to  put  it  into  language. 

These  two  hymns  are  the  utterance  of  Stone's 
dearest  and  deepest  convictions.  He  was,  before  all 
things,  a  devoted  Churchman,  caring  far  more  for  the 
Church  than  for  any  party  in  it,  and  regarding  the 
Church  of  England  with  all  and  more  than  all  the 
reverential  filial  feeling  which  he  manifested  towards 
his  parents,  his  school,  and  his  university.  The  other 
great  characteristic  of  his  religious  life  was  his  in- 
tense personal  devotion  to  his  Saviour.  He  would 
constantly  quote  the  passage  from  Bishop  Ken's  will 
which   has   been    adopted    by    Church    Bells   as    its 

30  MEMOIR   OF   S.   J.   STONE 

motto :  "  The  Communion  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land as  it  stands  distinguished  from  all  Papal  and 
Puritan  innovation,  and  as  it  adheres  to  the  doctrine 
of  the  Cross." 

So  these  two  hymns  represent  the  two  great 
aspects  of  the  Church — the  Church  as  seen  in  her 
pastoral  relation,  in  her  cure  of  souls ;  and  the 
Church  as  St.  Paul  and  St.  John  saw  her,  the 
"Jerusalem  which  is  above  .  .  .  the  mother  of  us 
all,"  "  the  holy  city,  new  Jerusalem,  coming  down 
from  God  out  of  heaven,  prepared  as  a  bride  adorned 
for  her  husband."  Weary  of  earth  has  whispered  its 
message  of  hope  and  of  healing  in  the  ear  of  many 
a  labouring  and  heavy-laden  soul,  while  the  ringing 
lines  of  The  Church's  one  Foundation  have  kindled  an 
ideal  of  the  Church  in  ten  thousands  of  hearts  all 
over  the  world.  They  caused  the  Bishop  of  Nelson 
to  apostrophise  their  author  in  these  terms  : — 

"  Now  in  the  desert,  now  upon  the  main, 
In  mine  and  forest,  and  on  citied  plain; 
From  Lambeth's  towers  to  far  New  Zealand  coast, 
Bard  of  the  Church,  thy  blast  inspires  the  host." 

The  hymn  will  remain  his  best  visible  monument. 

These  years  at  Windsor  also  saw  most  of  the 
poems  written  on  which  Stone's  claim  must  rest 
to  be  numbered  amongst  our  religious  poets.  For 
his  verse,  even  when  it  was  not  actually  sacred  verse, 
never  strayed  far  into  other  fields.  A  number  of  the 
poems  were  directly  inspired  by  incidents  in  his  paro- 


chial  work  ;  in  most  of  them  a  religious  vein  is  ap- 

Some  of  his  first  poems  were  the  Idylls  of  Deare 
Childe,  two  of  which  will  be  found  here.  Deare  Childe 
itself  was  suggested  by  seeing  the  words  on  a  tomb- 
stone in  a  country  churchyard  in  Buckinghamshire. 
They  would  appear  to  have  been  copied  from  a  stone 
in  Westminster  Abbey  of  two  hundred  years  ago. 
Morning  Robert  is  a  Wordsworthian  portrait  of  old 
age.  It  was  taken  from  life,  the  subject  being  an 
old  man  who  was  gatekeeper  of  the  cemetery  where 
Stone's  little  mission  church  was  situated.  The 
name  "  Morning  Robert "  was  given  him  in  allusion 
to  his  fancy  for  rising  every  morning  in  all  weathers 
and  seating  himself  beneath  an  oak  tree  to  see  the 
day  break.  The  Knight  of  Intercession,  which  served 
as  title  poem  to  his  first  published  volume,  owed  its 
origin  in  outline  to  a  story  of  Whyte  Melville's, 
which  however  Stone  altered,  both  "  in  detail  and 

In  1866  he  won  the  Oxford  Sacred  Poem,  on 
Sinai,  but  had  the  ill-fortune  to  be  subsequently 
disqualified  by  a  technicality  which  the  University 
authorities  had  overlooked.  Lyra  Fidelium  had  been 
warmly  received  by  the  press,  and  Stone's  name  be- 
came increasingly  widely  known  by  occasional  poems 
and  hymns  which  saw  the  light  from  time  to  time, 
especially  by  his  clever  and  humorous  Ratiottalistic 
Chicken,  which,  first  published  in  Home   Words,  was 

32  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

afterwards  printed  separately  and  had  an  enormous 
sale,  being  even  translated  into  French  under  the 
title  of  Le  oussitt  Ratiotialiste,  His  first  collected 
volume,  The  Knight  of  Intercession,  was  not  published 
until  after  he  had  left  Windsor,  by  which  time  there 
was  a  large  public  ready  to  welcome  it,  as  is  proved 
by  the  fact  that  he  lived  to  see  it  go  through  six  or 
seven  editions. 

In  estimating  the  worth  of  a  hymn  it  is  necessary, 
as  has  already  been  remarked,  that  the  critic  should 
remind  himself — or,  indeed,  in  some  cases  inform 
himself — as  to  what  it  is  wherein  the  virtues  of  a 
hymn  consist.  A  hymn  is  something  sui  generis, 
a  particular  form  of  composition  under  laws  and 
restrictions  of  its  own.  But  with  regard  to  a 
religious  poem  the  case  stands  otherwise.  That 
must  conform  to  the  ordinary  standards  by  which 
all  poetry  is  to  be  judged,  and  it  will  live  or  die 
according  as  it  does  so.  No  amount  of  religious 
feeling  will  ensure  a  poem's  salvation  unless  it  also 
possesses  the  grace  of  right  poetic  inspiration.  But 
at  the  same  time  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  the 
muse  sings  in  a  thousand  tones,  and  that  the  critic 
may  easily  condemn  a  poem  because  his  own  sym- 
pathies are  too  narrow,  because  the  conception  which 
he  has  framed  of  poetry  is  not  sufficiently  catholic. 
And  where  the  catholicity  of  the  ordinary  lover  of 
poetry  is  perhaps  most  apt  to  fall  short  is  where 
the  religious  element  is  in  question.     Many  people 


appreciate  Shakespeare  who  are  blind  to  the  sub- 
limity of  the  Paradiso ;  are  alive  to  the  charm  of 
Herrick,  while  they  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  notes  of 
George  Herbert  and  Henry  Vaughan  ;  can  quote  the 
Dream  of  Fair  Women,  but  have  hardly  read  the 
Dream  of  Gerontins.  Yet  what  is  this  after  all  but 
to  say  that  religious  poetry  is  only  to  be  appreciated 
by  religiously  minded  people?  To  these  Stone's 
work  has  appealed  from  the  first,  and  no  doubt,  in 
the  first  instance,  because  it  was  religious  more  than 
because  it  was  poetical.  It  is  from  a  belief  that 
many  of  his  poems  still  retain  their  value  that  the 
present  selection  is  made.  It  is  Time  only,  that 
incorruptible  judge,  which  can  decide  whether  they 
contain  enough  of  the  vital  essence  of  poetry  to 
make  them  classic. 

Twenty-five  years  later  a  second  volume  of  poems 
came  out  under  the  name  of  Lays  of  lona.  The 
character  of  St.  Columba  and  the  romance  asso- 
ciated with  lona  had  very  early  taken  hold  of 
Stone's  imagination.  The  poem  St.  Columb  of  lona 
dates  from  Windsor  days.  In  later  life  he  was  more 
and  more  drawn  to  the  subject  and  to  the  place 
itself,  for  he  spent  several  of  his  holidays  on  lona. 
The  result  was  a  long  poem  in  the  Spenserian  metre, 
which  he  called  Lyric  of  Lona :  Past,  and  To  Be.  It 
is  in  seven  cantos,  divided  by  songs  after  the  manner 
of  Tennyson's  Princess.  His  design  was  to  show 
that   "  the   cradle   of    one    branch    of    the    Catholic 


34  ■   MEMOIR   OF   S.    J.    STONE 

Church  is  to  be  identified  with  the  two  holy  islands 
of  lona  and  Lindisfarne,  and  with  the  names  of 
St.  Columba  and  St.  Aidan  and  their  spiritual  sons, 
more  than  with  those  of  St.  Augustine  and  his 
followers."  The  poem  contains  some  fine  lines  and 
images,  but  still  is  not  altogether  a  success.  Stone 
was  no  doubt  drawn  in  the  first  instance  to  Columba 
by  a  sense  of  spiritual  affinity.  The  affectionate 
and  impulsive  Celtic  lad,  athletic  and  ruddy,  with 
his  curling  brown  hair  and  kind  grey  eyes — for  so 
Columba  is  described  to  us — with  his  skill  in  poetry 
and  his  love  of  animals,  with  a  temper  originally 
quick  and  hasty,  but  chastened  and  subdued  by  his 
monastic  life  until  he  became  a  great  winner  of  souls, 
indeed  resembled  in  many  ways  the  subject  of  this 
memoir.  Stone,  very  characteristically,  became  so 
carried  away  by  his  affection  for  Columba  and  so 
enamoured  of  lona  and  the  Scotic  missionaries,  that, 
although  he  tries  his  hardest  to  do  justice  to  the 
work  of  the  Roman  missionaries,  he  cannot  help 
ascribing  almost  all  that  is  good  and  sound  in  the 
Church  of  England  to  the  Celtic  spirit,  which  he 
is  even  able  to  perceive  in  the  Reformation  ! 

This  volume  also  gathered  up  his  later  poetical 
writing,  including  the  sonnets  and  poems  which  were 
inspired  by  his  work  in  the  East  End  and  the  hymns 
which  he  had  written  from  time  to  time,  some  of 
which  again  were  written  especially  for  his  people 
at  Haggerston,  others  for  special  occasions,  such  as 
the  Jubilee  of  Queen  Victoria, 


During  his  last  long  illness  at  the  Charterhouse  he 
wrote  the  beautiful  little  Meditation  in  a  Night  of 
Pain,  the  last  poem  which  came  from  his  pen. 

Thus  the  poetic  spirit  remained  unquenched  in 
him  through  all  his  long  years  of  heavy  and  anxious 
clerical  work,  and  it  contributed  in  no  small  measure 
to  his  spiritual  influence.  It  is  now  time  to  give 
some  account  of  what  that  influence  was. 




IN  1870  Stone  left  Windsor  for  East  London, 
which  was  to  be  the  scene  of  his  work  for  just 
twenty  years.  He  went  to  act  as  curate  to  his 
father,  who  was  the  first  vicar  of  St.  Paul's,  Hagger- 
ston,  a  parish  carved  out  of  St.  Leonard's,  Shore- 
ditch,  and  lying  to  the  north  of  it.  There  were  no 
well-to-do  people  there  at  all.  Numbers  were  em- 
ployed in  the  City  or  other  parts  of  London  in  offices, 
shops,  or  trades.  But  a  great  many  more,  and  these 
the  poorest,  worked  at  home ;  some  at  the  different 
processes  of  bootmaking,  others  at  one  or  another  of 
the  extraordinary  crafts  which  are  carried  on  in  the 
East  End.  Thus  at  one  time  a  maker  of  clay  pipes 
and  a  maker  o{ papier-mache  dolls'  heads  lived  almost 
next  door  to  each  other.  The  population  was  about 
7,000,  and  Stone  was  fond  of  saying  that  you  could 
walk  right  round  the  parish  in  sixteen  minutes.  The 
poorest  street  of  all  is  marked  black  in  Mr.  Booth's 
maps  of  the  poverty  of  London,  black  expressing 



the  lowest  stratum  of  all.  In  this  street  the  popula- 
tion was  constantly  migratory,  and  used  almost 
entirely  to  change — in  many  houses  two  or  three 
times  over — in  the  course  of  three  or  four  years. 

During  his  father's  incumbency  the  church,  schools, 
and  vicarage  were  built  and  various  kinds  of  work 
set  on  foot.  The  church  was  the  first  built  by  Mr., 
afterwards  Sir  Arthur  Blomfield,  and  with  the  school 
and  vicarage  formed  a  compact  block  of  buildings. 
Blomfield  gave  an  offering  of  ^100 — a  considerable 
portion  of  his  fee — as  the  firstfruits  of  his  professional 
earnings,  towards  the  completion  of  the  church,  and 
Stone  would  always  refer  to  this  fine  act  as  the 
source  of  no  small  part  of  Blomfield's  after  success 
as  an  architect. 

For  four  years  Stone  helped  his  father  to  carry  out 
the  organisation  of  the  young  parish,  the  Evangelical 
vicar  and  the  High  Church  curate  working  harmoni- 
ously side  by  side,  after  which  the  old  man  retired  to 
the  Sussex  village  of  Alfriston,  well  known  for  its 
fourteenth-century  vicarage  (which  has  since  become 
the  property  of  the  National  Trust),  and  Stone  was 
appointed  by  Bishop  Jackson  to  succeed  him.  He 
had  two  years  before  this  published  his  volume  The 
Knight  of  Intercession,  and  in  the  same  year  had 
written  the  hymn  for  the  Thanksgiving  for  the  Prince 
of  Wales'  recovery,  which  was  sung  in  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral  on  February  27th,  1872.  His  name  had  thus 
become  very  generally  known  throughout  the  country. 

38  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

However,  it  is  not  of  his  poetical  but  of  his  paro- 
chial work  that  we  are  now  to  speak.  And  his  work 
as  a  parish  priest  was — who  but  One  can  say  whether 
less  or  more  valuable  than  his  work  as  a  poet?  It  is 
a  common  thing  to  hear  expressions  of  regret  when 
a  scholar  or  a  man  of  letters  exchanges  the  student's 
life  for  active  practical  work.  Lamentations  were 
uttered  when  Lightfoot  went  to  Durham,  and  so 
deprived  the  Church  of  the  completion  of  his  com- 
mentary on  St.  Paul's  Epistles.  But  nobody  who 
knows  what  he  did  for  the  diocese  of  Durham  would 
for  one  moment  endorse  this  feeling.  So  it  may  be 
that  had  Stone  lived  a  quiet  country  life  he  might 
have  given  us  other  hymns  as  fine  as  The  Churches 
one  Foundation.  But  nobody  who  knew  anything 
of  his  work  at  St.  Paul's,  Haggerston,  would  grudge 
the  loss  to  the  hymnody  of  the  Church. 

To  this  work  Stone  came  in  the  full  plenitude  of 
his  powers.     He  was  just  thirty-five, 

"  Nel  mezzo  di  cammin  di  nostra  vita," 

in  vigorous  health  and  full  of  high  spirits.  His 
athletic  build  and  active  movements  showed  the 
vital  force  which  resided  in  him.  He  was  at  this 
time  of  medium  height,  he  had  deep  brown  eyes  set 
in  a  fresh-coloured  face,  a  firm  nose,  brown  curling 
beard  and  moustache,  with  hair  of  a  darker  shade, 
brushed  back  with  a  sort  of  decision  from  a  well- 
shaped  forehead.     There  was  an  air  of  refinement. 


an  indefinable  suggestion  of  cultivation  and  of  Oxford 
about  him,  which  he  always  preserved  in  the  midst  of 
his  hardest  work  in  the  unloveliest  surroundings. 
And  there  was  set  upon  all  this  the  unmistakable 
stamp  of  the  parish  priest. 

The  outer  man  was  a  true  index  of  the  inner. 
Stone  was  indubitably  and  unfailingly  of  the  san- 
guine temperament.  His  vigour  of  body  was  matched 
by  a  vigorous  mind.  He  was  obstinate  to  a  fault  in 
the  pursuit  of  his  objects,  and  he  had  an  immense 
power  of  work.  He  had  the  sensitiveness  and  also  the 
quickness  and  impulsiveness  of  the  poet  and  the  self- 
confidence  of  the  idealist.  He  overflowed  naturally 
with  love,  and  his  intensely  religious  mind  turned 
that  love  into  two  channels,  along  which  it  constantly 
ran,  the  one  of  perpetual  devotion  to  Christ,  the  other 
of  unfailing  attachment  to  his  people. 

His  health  was  robust,  until  with  years  of  work  his 
nerves  gradually  became  worn  out.  But  in  his  best 
days  there  was  a  breeziness  and  go  about  him  which 
were  very  infectious.  He  was  full  of  fun  and  of 
good  stories,  and  when  he  started  off  for  a  holiday 
was  as  young  as  the  youngest.  Whenever  he  could 
get  a  day  he  would  carry  off  some  of  his  parishioners 
for  a  fishing  excursion,  either  in  the  Lea  or  in  more 
distant  waters,  and  for  years  he  kept  up  an  eight  on 
the  Lea  amongst  his  elder  lads.  He  used,  in  the  days 
before  bicycles,  to  thread  the  London  traffic  on  a 
tricycle,  enjoying  the  tonic  of  steering  in  a  crowded 

40  MEMOIR    OF   S.   J.    STONE 

thoroughfiire.     The   vicarage   itself  bore  witness   to 

this  side  of  his  nature.     The  drawing-room  was  full 

of  cases  of  stuffed  birds  and  fishes.     For  a  long  time 

he  had  an  old  brown  Irish  retriever,  Sancho  by  name, 

whose  declining  years  he  watched  over  with  the  most 

tender  and  assiduous  care.     When  at  last  his  end 

came  he  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  little  piece  of  garden 

at  the  back  of  the  vicarage.     Stone  immortalised  his 

memory  by  the  sonnet  on  p.  220,  and  by  the  following 

epitaph  : — 

"  In  the  centre  of  this  lawn  lies 


a  gentleman  in  all  but  humanity ;  thoroughbred, 
single  in  mind,  true  of  heart ;  for  seventeen  years 
the  faithful  and  affectionate  friend  of  his  master, 
who  loved  him,  and  now  for  him  'faintly  trusts 
the  larger  Hope '  contained,  it  may  be,  in  Romans 
viii.  19-21. 

He  died  April  2b,  1883." 

This  he  caused  to  be  cut  on  a  stone  let  into  the 
wall  of  the  adjacent  school,  where  the  Virginia  creeper 
managed;  in  spite  of  East  End  fogs,  to  throw  its 
trailing  tendrils  over  it. 

His  main  holiday,  year  after  year  for  forty  years, 
was  always  taken  in  a  most  lovely  spot  in  Shrop- 
shire. His  friend,  the  Rev.  Donald  Carr,  was  Vicar 
of  Woolstaston,  a  tiny  village  of  some  eighty  people 
which  nestles  in  a  nook  on  the  slopes  of  the  Long 
Mynd  hills  between  Church  Stretton  and  Shrewsbury. 
Lovely  as  these  hills  are  in  summer,  in  winter  they 


are  dangerous  travelling.  On  January  29th,  1865, 
Mr.  Carr  was  caught  in  a  snowstorm  when  crossing 
them,  and  spent  "  a  night  in  the  snow  " — ^a  title  which 
he  afterwards  gave  to  a  little  book  in  which  he 
described  his  adventure.  Thither  as  soon  as  June 
came  in  everyone  knew  that  he  would  betake  himself 
for  a  week  or  two's  trout  fishing.  Thither,  when  the 
dusty  summer  had  exhausted  the  air  of  the  sultry 
Haggerston  streets,  and  exhausted  too,  for  a  time, 
the  power  of  the  vicar,  his  parishioners  knew  that 
he  would  repair  for  another  week  or  two's  partridge 
shooting.  There  soon  came  to  be  a  "  Haggerston 
gorse"  at  Woolstaston,  and  many  long  days  he  spent 
with  rod  or  gun  in  those  happy  hunting-grounds 
either  alone  or  with  his  friends.  He  writes  of  one  of 
his  shooting  expeditions  that  it  was  "  a  day  to  be 
remembered  (as  the  old  Romances  say)  '  right 
joyously.' " 

From  these  holidays  he  would  return  with  a  tre- 
mendous fund  of  energy.  His  power  of  work  was 
enormous.  For  many  years  he  would  write  letters 
up  to  3.0  a.m.  for  the  late  post — until,  to  the  relief 
of  his  friends,  the  hour  of  collection  was  changed 
to  midnight — and  would  be  down  to  breakfast  next 
morning  at  eight.  He  would  throw  himself  with 
gusto  into  a  fight,  for  he  certainly  did  like,  perhaps 
because  he  was  a  soldier's  grandson, 

"  To  drink  delight  of  battle  with  [his]  peers," 
as  much  as  most  men.     But  it  was  not  only  for  the 

42  MEMOIR   OF   S.   J.    STONE 

joy  of  fighting :  the  causes  he  fought  for  were  very 
dear  to  him,  and  he  was  prepared  to  make,  and  made, 
the  greatest  sacrifices  for  them,  just  as  his  ancestors 
had  done  for  the  RoyaHst  cause  in  the  days  of 
Charles  I.  The  times  and  the  circumstances  were 
different,  but  the  chivalrous  spirit  was  still  there. 
Again  and  again  he  came  into  conflict  with  the 
London  School  Board,  one  part}'  in  which  made  it 
its  avowed  policy  to  introduce  a  system  of  universal 
board  schools.  More  than  once  sites  were  scheduled 
for  board  schools  close  to  the  St.  Paul's  Schools,  and 
when  that  happened  Stone  was  in  a  moment  off  on 
the  warpath.  Bishops  and  statesmen  would  be  bom- 
barded with  letters,  the  Education  Department  and 
the  School  Board  itself  would  be  personally  inter- 
viewed, and  he  would  allow  no  one  any  rest  until  the 
matter  was  decided — and  decided  time  after  time  in 
his  favour.  If  it  came  to  a  decree  from  the  Depart- 
ment that  he  should  make  some  alteration  in  the 
schools  involving  considerable  outlay,  he  would  write 
whole  sheaves  of  begging  letters,  till  those  who  ad- 
dressed his  appeals  for  him  would  tell  how  the  neigh- 
bouring pillar-boxes  were  choked  with  their  volume. 
Again  and  again  he  staved  off  the  advent  of  the  board 
schools,  and  managed  to  keep  them  at  such  a  distance 
from  his  own  schools  as  to  prevent  their  draining 
them  of  their  numbers,  as  the  lower  fees  which  their 
access  to  the  rates  enabled  them  to  charge  would 
very  speedily  have  done.     For  though  in  the  days 


before  free  education  some  of  the  better-class  parents 
preferred  to  pay  the  higher  fee  at  St.  Paul's  Schools 
for  the  sake  of  the  Church  teaching,  and  also  for  the 
sake  of  the  refinement  which  was  to  be  found  there, 
of  course  the  majority  wished  to  send  their  children 
where  they  had  least  to  pay.  After  one  such  victory 
over  the  Board,  Stone  came  home  in  the  very  highest 
spirits,  having  picked  up  on  his  way  home  some  snipe 
and  some  Smyrna  figs,  on  which  he  bade  his  curates 
— who  lived  in  the  vicarage — to  regale  with  him  as  at 
a  bump-supper !  It  is  not  surprising  that  one  of  the 
keenest  supporters  of  the  Board  School  system  spoke 
of  him  as  "the  most  tyrannical  priest  in  East  London." 
Whenever  there  was  a  School  Board  election  he  was 
always  to  the  fore  with  letters  to  the  local  papers 
and  diligent  canvassing  of  his  parish.  This  vigour 
of  character  enabled  him  to  keep  up  his  schools 
when  many  another  would  have  let  them  go,  and 
to  succeed  in  enlarging  them  until  they  held  eight 
hundred  children.  This  was  done  by  sheer  hard 
work  in  collecting  money. 

He  also  built  in  the  same  way  in  the  poorest 
quarter  of  the  parish  a  beautiful  little  mission  church, 
with  a  tiny  chancel  separated  from  the  body  of  the 
church  by  a  pointed  arch  of  brick  with  good  mouldings, 
behind  which  a  heavy  curtain  was  dropped  when  the 
place  was  used  for  mothers'  meetings  or  for  Sunday- 
school — a  Sunday-school  where  the  boys  would 
come  in  summer  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  and  the  girls 

44  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

were  hardly  less  wild  than  the  boys,  so  that  the  task 
of  exercising  much  control  over  them  on  the  annual 
summer  excursion  into  the  country  was  much  like 
trying  to  lead  young  leopards  on  a  silken  chain. 
This  fresh  development  of  work,  together  with  the 
maintenance  of  that  already  in  existence,  meant  a 
constant  burden  of  financial  anxiety.  It  is  this  strain 
which  wears  out  so  many  of  our  finest  parish  priests. 
And  in  the  end  it  wore  Stone  out. 

For  alongside  of  all  this  force  and  energy  there 
was  the  sensitive  poetic  temperament,  which,  just 
because  it  keenly  felt  and  sympathised,  had  such 
power  to  elevate  and  to  inspire.  He  saw  poetry 
everywhere,  and  carried  a  poetical  atmosphere  about 
with  him,  so  that  he  even  managed  to  create  it  in  his 
East  End  parish.  Like  the  setting  sun,  his  imagina- 
tion gilded  and  glorified  common  things  and  common 
natures.  He  brought,  just  as  did  his  friend  Bishop 
How,  a  breath  of  the  country  with  him  into  the  East 
End.  Bishop  How  came  from  his  lovely  Shropshire 
parish  to  be  Bishop  of  Bedford  in  1879.  Haggerston 
was  not  at  first  included  in  the  Bishop's  special  dis- 
trict, as  it  was  later,  or  we  should  no  doubt  have  had 
a  portrait  of  Stone  from  his  pen  amongst  his  series  of 
sonnets  entitled  Jkfy  Clergy.  Bishop  How  always  had 
much  of  the  country  atmosphere  about  him,  and  it 
came  like  water  in  the  desert  to  the  dweller  in  the 
East  End.  The  country,  especially  in  its  wilder  and 
more  romantic  aspects,  naturally  appealed  to  Stone. 


He  travelled  little,  and  was  only  once  or  twice  on  the 
Continent,  but  every  year  he  found  fresh  inspiration 
in  the  Shropshire  hills,  for  his  holidays  there  were 
not  only  dedicated  to  sport  but  also  produced  poetry 
as  well.  London,  too,  had  an  unending  fascination 
for  him,  and  he  would  not  have  wished  to  live  or  die 
away  from  it.  He  delighted  in  going  through  the 
silent  streets  at  night,  and  especially  when  there  had 
been  a  sudden  fall  of  snow,  which,  as  yet  unmarked 
by  wheel  or  footstep,  hid  with  its  "  saintly  veil  of 
maiden  white"  everything  ugly  and  foul.  In  his 
later  years  lona  became  a  sort  of  fairy  isle  to  him. 
He  went  there  again  and  again,  usually  staying  in  a 
very  rough  little  inn,  but  later  on  with  the  Bishop  of 
Argyll  and  the  Isles  in  the  house  which  he  had  built 
there.  To  the  little  chapel  of  the  house  Stone  gave 
an  altar-cross  and  candles,  and  he  was  made  intensely 
happy  by  being  able  to  celebrate  the  Eucharist  in  the 
isle  of  saints.  He  rejoiced  in  the  wild  scenery,  the 
bare  rocks  and  the  waves,  and  grew  to  be  inspired 
with  almost  a  worship  for  Columba  and  his  work,  as 
is  to  be  seen  in  his  last  volume  of  poems,  the  Lays  of 

He  brought  poetry  to  bear  as  an  educative  force  in 
his  parish.  Amongst  his  workers  he  found  many 
whom  he  was  able  to  inspire  with  something  of  his 
own  love  for  the  poets  of  his  choice,  for  Tennyson 
and  the  Christian  Year  and  Mrs.  Browning.  He  had 
a  great  belief  in  poetry  as  a  valuable  instrument  of 

46  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

elevation  and  refinement,  especially  when  united  with 
Church  teaching,  on  the  refining  influence  of  which 
he  would  constantly  insist.     He  gave  theoretical  ex- 
pression to  this  idea  in  a  paper  he  once  wrote  on  The 
Connexioft  between  Poetry  and  Church  Revival,  and  the 
practical  outcome  of  it  was  to  be  seen  in  many  of 
the  band  of  workers  which  he  gathered  round  him. 
Added  to  this  there  were  his  own  hymns  and  poems, 
which  were  largely  interwoven  with  his  parish  work 
and  had  much  influence  upon  it.    Did  anyone  of  note 
in  the  life  of  the  parish  die,  he  would  embalm  their 
memory  in  a  sonnet ;    did  his  teachers  or  his  guild 
need  a  hymn,  the  vicar  wrote  it.     It  is  easily  seen 
that  this  was  a  great  source  of  influence  in  his  parish. 
But  his  poetical  temperament  had  other  issues  than 
in    writing.      It   blended    with    the  highest  spiritual 
qualities  in  his  nature  and  gave  them  a  good  part 
of  their  effect  upon  his  people.     The  result  was  seen 
in  his  chivalry,  in  his  idealism,  and  in  his  love  of 
souls.     No  one  was  more  ready  than  he  to  champion 
the  oppressed  or  to  give  the  fallen  a  helping  hand. 
He  would  spare  neither  pains  nor  time  nor  money 
in  such  a  cause.    Anyone  who  claimed  his  help  found 
that  he  gave  it  with  both  hands.     His  generosity  was 
amazing ;  he  was  ready  to  give  away  all  he  had,  and 
instance    after    instance    might    be    quoted    of    the 
pecuniary  help  he  gave  to  people,  some  of  whom 
had  no  sort  of  claim  upon  him.     Cases  which  others 
dismissed  as  impossible  he  was  willing  to  take  up ; 


when  others  had  despaired  he  was  the  last  to  aban- 
don hope.  His  care  for  women  and  children  was 
one  of  his  most  notable  characteristics.  In  a  woman 
or  a  child  there  was  something  which  irresistibly 
appealed  to  him.  It  has  been  already  said  how 
specially  he  loved  his  infants'  school.  At  Haggers- 
ton,  if  he  visited  it  near  closing  time  he  would  beg 
the  mistress  to  keep  the  children  back  for  a  few 
minutes  until  he  got  away,  for  otherwise  he  knew 
that  legs,  arms,  pockets,  and  even  shoulders  would  be 
besieged  by  the  little  creatures.  On  one  occasion  a 
somewhat  harsh  inspector  had  visited  the  infant 
school,  and  when  Stone  entered  he  found  the  teachers 
reduced  to  tears  and  general  gloom  prevailing.  Out 
rushed  the  vicar,  and  in  a  few  minutes  returned  laden 
with  two  hundred  and  fifty  bags  of  sweets,  which  he 
proceeded  to  distribute  amongst  the  children.  Such 
a  vicar  was  obviously  irresistible. 

His  chivalrous  loyalty  to  his  people  was  warmly 
reciprocated  ;  it  was  of  a  piece  with  his  loyalty  to 
his  Church,  his  Queen,  and  his  parents.  It  was  in 
part  due  to  his  unquenchable  idealism.  Idealism 
has,  as  the  world  is  always  forward  to  point  out,  a 
weak  side,  and  there  were  those  who  were  quite 
ready  to  say  that  Stone  was  so  blind  that  he  got 
terribly  imposed  upon.  This,  no  doubt,  was  some- 
times the  case.  But  if  it  was,  the  harm  which  came 
in  some  instances  from  his  taking  geese  for  swans 
was  very  far  outweighed  by  the  good  which  resulted 

48  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

in  many  others,  for  Stone  had  an  unique  power  of 
setting  before  people  an  ideal  standard.  He  idealised 
the  Church,  and  he  made  people  see  the  grandeur 
and  beauty  of  his  own  conception.  He  idealised  his 
parish,  and  brought  his  communicants  to  feel  their 
relation  to  him  and  to  each  other  and  to  their  Lord, 
and  to  realise  in  practice  the  meaning  of  Christian 
brotherhood.  But,  above  all,  he  had  the  power  of 
seeing  the  ideal  in  the  most  unpromising  natures, 
of  seeing  what  by  grace  they  might  become,  and, 
by  imparting  to  them  his  own  vision,  of  making 
them  rise  to  heights  which  they  never  thought  them- 
selves capable  of  attaining.  Where  his  idealism 
acted  on  sympathetic  natures  it  acted  as  the  most 
potent  stimulus.  By  appealing  to  their  spiritual 
imaginations,  he  taught  them  to  glorify  the  grey 
monotony  and  dulness  of  their  lives.  What  he  most 
admired  in  character  was  the  union  of  strength  and 
tenderness.  He  exhibited  this  union  in  his  own 
nature,  and  he  called  forth  the  same  combination  of 
qualities  in  many  others. 

From  what  has  been  said  it  will  be  sufficiently  clear 
that  Stone's  great  power  as  a  parish  priest  lay  in 
dealing  with  individuals.  He  had,  indeed,  a  real  and 
deep  love  of  souls,  and  this  was  the  outcome  of  his 
fervent  love  of  his  Master,  a  love  to  which  he  would 
give  constant  expression  in  his  sermons,  as  also  in  his 
hymns  and  poems.  "  Who  loved  me  and  gave  Him- 
self for  me"  were  words  which  were  constantly  on 


his  lips.     A  personal  love  for  Christ  was  what  he 
would  hold  up  to  his  people  as  the  heart  and  centre 
of  a  Christian  life.     It  was  the  centre  of  his  own, 
and  it  meant  for  him  not  only  personal  devotion  to 
a  Saviour,  but  a  like  devotion  to  those  He  came  to 
save.     His  incessant  care  for  an  individual  was  some- 
thing very  remarkable.     In  sickness  he  would  throw 
into  his  visits  all  the  intensity  he  possessed,  and  if 
the  sick  person  were  one  of  his  workers  he  would 
be  untiring  in  his  ministrations.     In  one  case  where 
one  of  his  teachers  was  for  some  time  lying  between 
life  and  death  he  used  not  only  to  pay  a  pastoral 
visit  once  or  twice  a  day,  but  would  also  make  a 
point  of  calling  to  inquire  for  a  last  message  between 
one  and  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  as  he  went  out 
to  post   his    letters.     In   fact,  for   his    teachers   and 
workers   he  showed   the   most   solicitous  care.     He 
would,  for  instance,  remember  their  birthdays  and 
mark  them  by  some  small  gift.     "  I  know,"  said  one 
of  them,  "  that  almost  every  book  or  picture  I  may 
wish  to  show  to  a  visitor  is  a  present  from  my  vicar." 
In  the  case  of  the  day-school  teachers  he  would  take 
care  to  tell  their  successes  to  parents  and  visitors, 
and   he  was    always    desirous  to   do  everything  he 
could  to  inspire  and  encourage  them  in  what,  with 
all  its  rewards  and  advantages,  must  always  remain 
a  difficult  and  monotonous  profession. 

His  influence  over  individuals  became  in  Stone's 
hands  the  chief  weapon  in  his  attack  on  the  masses 


50  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

of  his  large  parish.  It  may  be  said  that,  broadly 
speaking,  there  are  two  methods  of  working  a  parish, 
the  method  of  working  from  the  centre  to  the 
circumference,  or  else  from  the  circumference  to  the 
centre.  In  some  parishes  the  chief  effort  will  be 
concentrated  in  gathering  a  devout  band  of  com- 
municants whose  influence  shall  be  as  leaven,  and 
from  amongst  whom  the  workers  in  the  parish  and 
the  teachers  in  the  schools  shall  be  recruited.  In 
others  effort  will  be  rather  directed  towards  filling 
the  church  and  the  mission  rooms  by  such  means 
as  open-air  services  and  house-to-house  visiting 
combined  with  popular  services  and  sermons,  and 
then  to  gradually  forming  out  of  this  general  con- 
gregation the  inner  band  of  communicants.  The 
ideal  parish,  if  such  there  be,  would  perfectly  com- 
bine both  these  methods.  Every  parish  priest  will 
obviously  desire  to  adopt  them  both,  only  one  man 
will  naturally  give  himself  more,  as  he  feels  a  greater 
gift  for  it,  to  direct  evangelistic  work,  another  more 
to  the  task  of  instructing  and  building  up  the  faithful 
and  to  working  through  them  upon  others.  Now 
Stone's  great  strength  lay  in  "confirming  the  faithful." 
Browning's  well-known  line — 

"Tis  the  taught  already  that  profit  by  teaching" — 

might  very  well  have  served  as  a  motto  for  him. 
Not  that  he  had  no  influence  in  reclaiming  the 
prodigal — in  some   cases   he   had    most   remarkable 


influence— but  his  real  forte  lay  in  imparting  to  the 
elder  brother  of  the  parable,  to  him  who  never  had 
strayed  from  the  right  way,  all  the  treasures  of  his 
Father's  house.  He  was,  in  short,  first  of  all  the 
pastor  and  only  after  that  the  evangelist. 

This  was  seen  in  his  parochial  methods  and  also  in 
his  teaching.  Curates,  churchwardens  and  sidesmen, 
lay  readers,  day  and  Sunday-school  teachers,  and  the 
rest  of  the  workers  and  Church  officials  he  bound  to 
himself  in  the  closest  possible  way.  For  his  curates 
and  his  day-school  teachers  there  was  week  by  week 
a  short  devotional  service.  For  the  Sunday-school 
teachers  there  was  the  same  every  month.  Then 
there  was  a  Church  Society  and  Guild  with  frequent 
meetings  and  a  rule  of  Communion.  Thus  he  was 
brought  into  constant  touch  with  all  the  communi- 

Of  his  care  for  the  day-school  teachers  something 
has  already  been  said.  They  reflected  his  influence 
in  the  school.  He  pledged  them  to  bring  unbaptised 
children  to  Baptism,  so  that  from  the  infants'  school 
upwards  the  children  were  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
Church  and  under  the  influence  of  the  religious  tone 
which  pervaded  the  schools.  Thus  the  schools  for 
which  he  fought  so  often  and  so  manfully  became  the 
seed-bed  of  the  Church,  and  in  them  many  sons 
indeed  grew  up  "  as  the  young  plants,"  many 
daughters  became  "  as  the  polished  corners  of  the 
temple."     When  Stone  accepted  the  living  he  nailed 

52  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.    STONE 

his  colours  to  the  mast  with  respect  to  the  schools. 
"  I  must  tell  you  plainly,"  he  said  to  a  public  meeting 
of  parishioners,  "  if  I  cannot  carry  on  the  schools  I 
will  not  give  them  up  to  the  School  Board,  but  I  will 
give  up  my  charge  of  the  parish.  I  say  most 
solemnly,  and  I  make  the  vow  before  God — believing 
that  any  clergyman  who  with  his  eyes  open  gives  up 
his  schools  to  the  Board  and  puts  them  out  of  the 
protection  of  the  Church,  the  one  true  keeper  of  the 
Word,  the  true  testifier  of  the  Incarnation,  is  putting 
an  offence  in  the  way  of  these  little  ones  from  coming 
to  Christ,  and  that  it  were  therefore  '  better  for  him 
that  a  millstone  were  hanged  about  his  neck  and  that 
he  were  cast  into  the  depths  of  the  sea ' — believing 
that  I  say,  May  God  do  so  to  me,  and  more  also,  if  I 
give  up  my  schools,  or  so  depart  from  my  interpreta- 
tion of  the  truth  of  the  Church  of  Christ." 

The  schools  were  the  nursery  ground.  From  them 
he  drew  the  majority  of  his  Confirmation  candidates. 
Confirmation  was,  in  Stone's  view,  the  great  oppor- 
tunity of  the  parish  priest.  Then,  if  ever,  the  bias 
was  to  be  given  which  should  direct  the  whole  future 
life.  He  regarded  Confirmation  not  so  much  as  a 
turning-point — though  that  it  must  be  in  the  first 
instance — as  a  new  starting-point,  the  beginning  of 
the  communicant  life.  To  his  classes  he  would 
almost  literally  compel  the  lads  and  girls  to  come  in, 
not  necessarily,  by  any  means,  to  be  confirmed,  but 
in  order  to  be  instructed,  and  very  likely  after  that  to 


be  put  back  for  another  year.  The  preparation 
lasted  at  least  a  couple  of  months,  and  each  candi- 
date, besides  the  instruction  in  class,  was  most 
carefully  dealt  with  individually.  Then,  after  Con- 
firmation, there  were  the  Guild  and  Church  Society 
ready  to  receive  them.  As  time  went  on  he  saw 
many  weddings  between  members  of  the  Church 
Society — "  communicant,"  as  he  used  to  say,  "  wed- 
ding communicant" — and  a  new  generation  of 
children  born  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  Church, 
beginning,  as  their  parents  had  done,  in  the  babies' 
room  of  the  infant  school. 

All  this,  it  will  be  said,  is  to  be  found  in  many 
parishes,  and  it  may  thankfully  be  admitted  that  a 
good  deal  of  it  is.  But  there  can  be  few  parishes 
in  which  so  marked  a  family  feeling  exists  as  existed 
in  St.  Paul's,  Haggerston.  Stone  was  exceedingly 
open  about  himself,  and  would  tell  his  people  many 
intimate  details  of  his  life  which  most  men  would 
not  talk  about  even  to  those  nearest  to  them.  But 
he  meant  what  he  was  saying  when  he  called  his 
people  "my  sons"  or  "my  daughters."  He  always 
regarded  them  as  standing  in  this  spiritual  relation  to 
himself  One  little  sign  of  it  was  his  habit  of  calling 
even  quite  old  people  by  their  Christian  names.  He 
told  his  people  all  about  himself  and  his  doings,  and 
in  return  he  expected  a  similar  unreserve  and  open- 
ness on  their  side,  and  he  got  it.  Stone  was  always 
entirely  human,  and  his  people,  living  on  the  terms 

54  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

which  they  did  with  him,  thoroughly  knew  his  weak- 
nesses as  well  as  his  strength,  and  they  only  loved 
him  the  more  for  them.  In  this  way  there  came  to 
be  established  in  a  very  striking  form  between  vicar 
and  congregation  that  beautiful  and  sacred  pastoral 
relationship  which  every  parish  priest  must  desire  to 
see  existing  in  his  parish.  Stone  became  in  a  truly 
Pauline  sense  the  father  of  his  people. 

The  congregation  of  St.  Paul's,  Haggerston,  was 
mainly,  in  fact  almost  entirely,  a  congregation  of 
communicants,  and  at  the  great  festivals  several 
hundreds  would  come  to  the  altar.  Nothing,  per- 
haps, was  a  better  evidence  of  Stone's  influence 
than  the  two  hundred  or  more  who  would  com- 
municate very  early  in  the  morning,  before  their 
day's  work,  on  Ascension  Day.  It  was  a  sight  not 
to  be  forgotten.  One  of  the  striking  features  of  a 
festival  celebration  was  always  the  presence  of  three 
or  four  blind  people,  each  of  whom  would  be  led  up 
to  the  altar  and  back  by  a  friendly  hand. 

It  was  to  a  congregation  of  this  kind  that  Stone 
addressed  himself  in  his  sermons.  It  has  been  said 
with  much  truth  that  each  preacher  has  his  own 
particular  audience,  and  will  appeal  to  one  particular 
class  of  hearers.  This  may  not  be  all  the  truth,  but 
no  doubt  most  preachers  cannot  get  into  touch  with 
every  congregation,  and  certainly  it  is  only  the  con- 
gregation which  is  in  perfect  sympathy  with  the 
preacher  which  will  draw  out  what  is  best  in  him. 


This  was  the  case  at  St.  Paul's,  Haggerston.  Stone 
far  preferred  talking  to  his  own  people  to  preaching 
elsewhere.  He  had  no  desire  at  all  for  fame  as  a 
preacher.  His  sermons  as  a  general  rule  were  for 
the  most  part  addressed  to  those  who  were  already 
taught  in  the  Faith.  They  made  for  edification 
rather  than  conversion.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
had  a  great  power  of  drawing  people  out  of  luke- 
warm and  conventional  churchmanship  into  fervour 
and  reality,  as,  for  instance,  of  inducing  elder  people 
to  offer  themselves  for  Confirmation — a  step  which 
means  so  much  when  it  is  taken  in  mature  life.  And 
on  a  special  occasion,  as  on  Good  Friday  or  at  the 
midnight  service  on  New  Year's  Eve,  he  knew  how 
to  appeal  with  the  most  telling  force  to  "  them  that 
are  without,"  and  he  used  to  say  in  reply  to  those 
who  found  fault  with  midnight  services  as  tending  to 
unhealthy  sensationalism,  that  it  was  nearly  always  the 
case  that  one  at  any  rate  of  those  who  had  strayed 
into  the  church  that  evening  was  permanently  won. 

His  intensity  of  conviction  it  was  which  gave  him 
this  power,  and  it  was  this  same  intensity  which  held 
his  congregation  attentive  for  sometimes  forty  or  fifty 
minutes.  In  his  exposition  of  Scripture  he  had  great 
power  of  drawing  out  the  depths  of  spiritual  mean- 
ing in  a  passage.  Sometimes,  indeed,  the  sermon 
would  be  merged  in  a  meditation.  His  poetry 
asserted  itself  in  full  force  in  his  preaching,  and 
would  sometimes  move  him  to  great  eloquence.    But 

56  MEMOIR   OF   S.   J.   STONE 

it  was  usually  seen  in  his  choice  or  presentment  of 
a  subject.  Thus  he  would  frequently  take  some 
hymn  or  poem  and  comment  upon  it.  In  a  volume  of 
his  Parochial  Sermons,  which  has  been  published  since 
his  death,  there  is  a  sermon  on  "November."  In 
another  sermon  he  quaintly  compares  the  company 
of  All  Saints  to  a  great  picture-gallery,  admission  to 
which  is  gained  by  payment  of  the  three  coins  of 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Love.  But  he  was  never  merely 
eloquent  or  merely  poetical.  Underneath  there  was 
always  burning  that  flame  of  personal  love  for  Jesus 
Christ  which  the  dullest  hearer  could  not  fail  to  see 
and  feel. 

A  word  must  be  said  of  one  branch  of  work  which 
was  carried  on  in  connexion  with  his  parish.  Stone 
inherited  from  his  father  a  deep  interest  in  God's 
ancient  people,  the  Jews,  and  for  many  years  the 
Rev.  M.  Rosenthal,  now  Vicar  of  St.  Mark's,  White- 
chapel,  whose  self-denying  life-work  amongst  the 
Jews  of  East  London  has  come  to  be  generally 
known  in  the  Church  of  England,  was  licensed  to 
him  as  his  curate.  It  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  the 
boys'  schoolroom  filled  with  a  frowsy  crowd  of  un- 
kempt Polish  Jews,  singing  in  Yiddish,  Lord,  I  hear 
of  showers  of  blessing :  it  was  a  still  stranger  sight 
to  see  an  adult  baptism,  when  the  converts  would  be 
followed  into  church  by  a  fierce-eyed,  muttering  crowd 
of  their  fellows,  who  would  threaten  acts  of  personal 
violence  alike  to  priests  and  converts,  threats  which, 



happily,  they  seldom  if  ever  managed  to  put  into 
practice.  Strangest  and  most  moving  of  all  it  was 
to  be  present  at  a  choral  Hebrew  Eucharist,  when 
one  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  be  hearing  the  Church 
of  Jerusalem  in  the  first  days  lifting  up  "  their  voice 
with  one  accord"  in  praise  of  the  Crucified.  This 
Jewish  work,  which  had  its  headquarters  at  St.  Paul's, 
Haggerston — though  there  were  few,  if  any,  Jews 
living  within  the  limits  of  the  parish — made,  as  might 
be  expected,  a  deep  impression  upon  the  parishioners. 

So  for  twenty  years  Stone  laboured  in  the  East 
End.  He  refused  every  offer  of  work  elsewhere,  in- 
cluding a  colonial  bishopric,  and  every  year  drew 
him  closer  to  his  people,  who  indeed  showed  them- 
selves not  unworthy  of  their  parish  priest.  "The 
Church  folk  of  East  London,"  he  wrote  in  the  preface 
to  his  last  volume  of  poems,  "  are  among  the  noblest 
of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  Church,  not  only 
as  regards  the  much  endurance  and  long  patience 
of  their  lives,  their  sincerity,  high-mindedness  and 
courage,  their  freedom  from  self-indulgence  and  in- 
dolence on  the  one  hand  and  from  narrowness  and 
stolidity  on  the  other  .  .  .  but  also  because  of  their 
keen  and  animated  interest  in  all  that  concerns  their 
Mother  in  Christ,  and  their  consecrated  zeal  for  His 
sake  in  her  service." 

In  the  case  of  a  man  like  Stone,  whose  power  lay 
so  much  in  the  strong  personal  ties  by  which  he 
bound  his  people  to  him,  it  may  be  asked  whether, 

58  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

when  those  ties  were  relaxed  by  his  leaving  the 
parish,  the  result  was  not  that  the  congregation  was 
dispersed.  This  is  the  weak  point  of  some  ministries, 
but  it  was  not  so  at  St.  Paul's,  Ilaggerston.  Stone's 
successor,  the  Rev.  H.  W.  Goodhart,  a  man  of  a  beau- 
tiful nature  though  of  quite  a  different  type,  wrote 
thus  after  Stone's  death,  which  took  place  ten  years 
after  he  left  the  parish  :  "  You  may  have  thought 
that  his  influence  here  was  not  felt  so  greatly  since 
he  went  from  here.  Yet,  even  though  he  had  left,  he 
had  so  influenced  the  lives  of  those  who  came  in 
contact  with  him,  that  that  influence  has  been  handed 
on  through  them  to  others,  and  his  name  is  as  much 
known  here,  I  believe,  as  ever  it  was."  That  some 
part  of  this  was  due  to  the  influence  of  Mr.  Goodhart 
himself — who  also  was  called  early  to  his  rest  only  a 
few  months  later — cannot  be  doubted  ;  but  his  words 
are  a  strong  witness  to  the  fact  that  Stone  attached 
people  not  merely  to  himself,  but  also  through  him- 
self to  his  Master. 

All  this  twenty  years'  work — "  work  which,"  wrote 
Temple  (then  Bishop  of  London),  with  that  economy  of 
commendation  which  was  more  eloquent  than  another 
man's  elaborate  praise,  "  few  men  could  have  done  as 
you  have  done  it " — had  left  its  mark  upon  him,  and 
he  was  fast  breaking  down  in  health,  and  indeed  there 
were  threatenings  of  an  utter  nervous  collapse,  when 
in  1890  he  was  presented  by  the  Lord  Chancellor  to 
the  Rectory  of  All  Hallows',  London  Wall. 



A  LL  HALLOWS',  London  Wall,  is  a  small  City 
JL\.  church  a  few  hundred  yards  from  Broad  Street 
and  Liverpool  Street  stations.  It  is  not  a  new 
church,  but  it  is  a  dingy  brick  building  with  classic 
tower  of  the  time  of  George  II.  The  ugliness  of 
its  exterior  is,  however,  relieved  by  one  or  two  trees 
which  stand  in  its  strip  of  churchyard,  and  are  as 
refreshing  to  the  eye  as  the  tree  immortalised  by 
Wordsworth,  which  happily  still  stands  in  Wood 
Street,  Cheapside.  The  church  is  built  on  the  site 
of  a  part  of  London  Wall,  in  the  street  of  that 
name,  and  its  octagonal  vestry  marks  the  shape  of 
a  bastion  of  the  wall.  Though  the  present  building 
is  only  Georgian,  there  was  a  church  on  the  same 
site  from  very  early  times. 

One  of  the  first  things  the  new  rector  discovered 
were  some  most  precious  churchwardens'  accounts, 
which  were  lying  hid  in  a  coffer  in  the  vestry,  and 
which  were  found  actually  to  date  back  to  the  reign 


6o  MEMOIR   OF   S.   J.    STONE 

of  Henry  IV.  They  are  written  on  paper,  and  the 
writing  is  usually  beautifully  clear.  They  contain 
many  interesting  details,  and  amongst  much  else 
there  are  references  to  one  "  Symon  the  anker," 
whose  cell  occupied  the  site  of  the  present  vestry. 
This  anchorite  was  an  M.A.  of  Oxford,  a  man  of 
means,  who  made  many  and  liberal  gifts  to  the 
church  and  also  left  money  to  it  in  his  will.  He  was 
the  author  of  A  Treatise  on  the  Fruites  of  Redemp- 
tion, a  copy  of  which  is  to  be  found  in  the  British 
Museum.  These  meditations  are  most  simple  and 
spiritual  addresses,  probably  preached  during  Lent, 
and  afterwards  printed,  as  he  says,  in  English,  for 
the  sake  of  the  ignorant.  He  tells  us  that  the  book 
had  been  "  overseen  "  and  approved  by  the  Bishop  of 
London,  and  he  concludes  the  treatise  thus :  "  If 
there  are  any,"  he  says,  "  who  have  been  comforted 
by  these  simple  words — then,  let  them  pray  for  the 
soul  of  the  wretched  Symon,  anker  of  London 

This  queer  little  church,  packed  away  amongst 
huge  blocks  of  offices  and  warehouses,  had  fallen 
on  evil  days.  It  was  dark,  musty,  and  depressing, 
and  might  well  be  thought  to  afford  an  unanswerable 
argument  for  those  who  inveigh  against  the  useless- 
ness  of  City  churches  and  are  loud  in  their  demand 
for  their  abolition.  Indeed,  it  had  only  barely  escaped 
destruction,  and  as  its  demolition  had  come  to  be 
regarded  as  merely  a  question  of  time,  very  few  repairs 

ALL   HALLO WS\   LONDON   WALL       6i 

had  been  done  of  late  years,  and  it  now  presented, 
both  without  and  still  more  within,  an  appearance  of 
the  most  sombre  and  unrelieved  gloom. 

The  new  rector,  therefore,  had  to  "solve  the 
problem  of  the  City  church,"  and  the  solutions  which 
he  attempted  are  of  much  interest.  The  first  thing, 
obviously,  was  to  take  the  interior  in  hand.  This 
he  did  with  his  usual  thoroughness.  A  good  architect 
was  called  in,  and  the  church  was  found  to  contain 
much  of  that  excellent  English  Renaissance  work 
which,  now  that  we  have  got  rid  of  the  idea  that 
everything  else  than  Gothic  is  profane,  is  seen  to 
lend  itself  to  reverent  and  artistic  treatment.  There 
had  never  been  gas  in  the  church,  and  so  the  fine 
old  spider  chandeliers  for  thirty  candles  were  found, 
when  cleaned,  to  be  in  excellent  condition,  and  were 
easily  adapted  for  electric  light.  The  three-decker 
pulpit  and  the  high  pews  were  cut  down  and  the 
wood  used  for  panelling  all  round  the  church. 
Soft  and  harmonious  colour  was  introduced,  a  digni- 
fied altar  placed  in  the  little  apse  with  its  honey- 
combed ceiling,  and  the  altarpiece,  which  represents 
the  healing  of  St.  Paul's  blindness,  a  good  copy 
by  Dance  of  an  Italian  picture,  carefully  cleaned  and 
restored.  Stone  spent  upon  this  restoration  more 
than  a  year's  income  of  the  living,  and  not  being 
able  to  depend  on  private  means,  was  contented  to 
live  during  that  time  without  a  home  of  his  own. 

It  remained  to  make  the  church  a  spiritual  temple 

62  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

in  tlic  heart  of  the  City.  Stone  tried  to  do  this  in 
three  especial  ways. 

First  of  all  it  was  to  be  a  sanctuary,  newly  beauti- 
fied, warmed,  and,  when  necessary,  lighted.  Its  doors 
stood  open  all  day.  It  soon  came  to  be  visited 
by  numbers  of  people,  who  would  enter  the  church, 
some  for  a  few  moments  of  quiet  prayer,  some  for 
just  a  rest,  some  simply  out  of  curiosity.  Few 
people  would  believe  how  many  drift  in  from  the 
currents  of  traffic  which  are  always  setting  through 
the  City  into  such  a  haven  as  this.  A  record  was 
kept  at  All  Hallows',  and  it  was  found  that  in  one 
year  a  most  surprising  number  of  people  had  in  this 
way  visited  the  church.  Whatever  the  motive  which 
drew  them  thither,  the  mere  fact  of  such  a  sanctuary 
being  open  through  the  day  for  passing  feet  to  enter 
goes  far  to  justify  the  continued  existence  of  a  City 

Then  there  was  the  task  of  making  it  more  really 
a  house  of  prayer  than  before.  The  circumstances 
of  a  City  church  must  be  borne  in  mind.  In  the 
case  of  All  Hallows'  the  day  population  would  be, 
perhaps,  10,000,  the  night  population  was  150.  In 
other  words,  during  the  daytime  the  offices  and 
warehouses  of  which  the  parish  solely  consists  are 
swarming  with  life  ;  at  night  they  are  left  in  the 
charge  of  a  few  caretakers.  These  caretakers,  then, 
make  up  the  resident  population.  But  it  is  to  the 
floating  day  population   of  the  City  that  the  City 

ALL   HALLOWS\   LONDON   WALL       63 

church  has  to  minister.  The  City  rector  must  say, 
adapting  John  Wesley's  words,  "  All  the  City  is  my 
parish."  This  is,  of  course,  recognised  nowadays 
on  all  hands  by  many  vigorous  London  incumbents, 
and  the  midday  service,  with  a  sermon,  either  in 
the  church  or  from  an  outside  pulpit,  is  almost  a 
matter  of  course. 

Stone  did  not  proceed  exactly  on  these  lines.  He 
first  of  all  restored  the  weekly  and  Saints'  Day 
Eucharist,  and  then  formed  a  Litany  Guild.  The 
members  of  the  guild  were  communicants  whose 
occupation  lay  in  the  City.  Its  objects  were  ^'Gener- 
ally, the  promotion  of  the  habit  of  occasional  prayer, 
beyond  ordinary  use  ;  specially,  the  better  observance 
of  the  rule  of  the  Church  as  regards  the  week-day 
use  of  the  Litany."  The  means  by  which  they  were 
to  be  attained  were  to  be  '■'Generally,  the  habit  of 
ejaculatory  prayer ;  specially,  the  public  or  private 
use  of  the  Litany."  Before  long,  between  twenty 
and  thirty  members,  almost  an  equal  number  of 
either  sex,  were  to  be  found  every  Wednesday  and 
Friday  at  Litany  in  All  Hallows'.  Others  attended 
in  other  City  churches,  or  said  the  first  part  of  the 
Litany  privately. 

There  was  yet  another  use  to  be  found  for  All 
Hallows',  and  this  a  new  and  very  striking  one.  In 
1898  the  Rev.  R.  S.  Gregory,  Vicar  of  Edmonton, 
asked  the  authorities  of  the  East  London  Church 
Fund  whether  they  could   find  him   a  church,  near 

64  MEMOIR   OF   S.   J.    STONE 

Liverpool  Street  and  Broad  Street  stations,  which 
the  vicar  would  consent  to  open  early  in  the  morning, 
as  a  haven  of  rest  for  the  girls  and  women  living  in 
his  huge  parish,  between  the  hour  of  their  arrival 
from  Edmonton  and  the  time  when  the  City  work- 
shops and  offices  in  which  they  were  employed  were 
opened.  These  workers  come  up  at  a  very  early 
hour  in  order  to  take  advantage  of  the  workmen's 
trains,  and  it  was  found  that  they  were  forced  either 
to  remain  in  the  waiting-rooms  at  the  stations  or  to 
wander  about  the  streets.  All  Hallows',  London  Wall, 
was  obviously  the  church  for  the  purpose,  and  Stone 
eagerly  threw  himself  into  the  scheme.  It  was  de- 
cided to  open  the  church  from  6.30  to  8.30  a.m.,  well 
warmed  and  lighted,  during  the  winter  months. 
Handbills  were  distributed  at  the  stations  and  in  the 
parish  of  Edmonton,  and  on  January  9th,  1899,  ^^^ 
experiment  was  begun.  The  first  day  nobody  ap- 
peared, but  next  day  one  came,  and  the  following 
day  eight,  and  in  a  short  time  the  church  was  full 
every  morning,  with  an  average  of  a  hundred  and 
sixty  girls  and  women. 

This  new  departure  naturally  attracted  a  good 
deal  of  attention,  and  called  forth  in  some  quarters 
a  certain  amount  of  criticism.  It  may  be  said  at 
once  that  it  was  in  every  way  a  success.  During  the 
two  hours  the  church  was  open  sacred  music  was 
played,  interspersed  sometimes  with  solos,  and  at 
7,30  a  ten  minutes'  service  was  held.     Books  were 


provided,  not  only  religious  books,  but  books  of 
history  and  the  like,  bound  volumes  of  magazines, 
and  such  stories  as  those  of  Miss  Yonge.  Knitting 
and  needlework  were  permitted,  but  no  one  was 
allowed  to  talk,  to  eat,  or  to  read  newspapers.  The 
Press  soon  got  to  hear  of  the  venture,  and  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  Westmhister  Gazette^  who  may  be 
taken  to  be  an  entirely  unbiased  witness,  reported 
that  on  the  occasion  of  his  visit  he  found  "  nearly 
everyone  reading  or  kneeling."  There  was  never  any 
cause  of  complaint  on  the  score  of  irreverence,  and 
when  the  winter  was  over  the  girls  themselves 
petitioned  that  the  church  should  be  kept  open 
during  the  summer.  The  early  opening  thus  became 
an  established  thing,  and  it  only  remained  to  make 
similar  provision  for  the  men.  This  has  been  done 
by  Stone's  successor,  who,  beginning  by  providing  a 
tent  in  the  little  churchyard,  was  eventually  able, 
in  1902,  to  see  it  replaced  by  a  permanent  building. 
At  least  one  other  City  church  has  since  followed 
the  example  set  at  All  Hallows',  and  has  thrown 
open  its  doors  for  the  same  purpose.  The  words  of 
Longfellow's  sonnet  occur  to  the  mind — 

"  Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 

A  labourer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat. 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 

Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 

Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er  ; 

Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat ; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 

Become  an  indistinguishable  roar." 


66  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

And  one  is  led  to  hope  that  what  struck  the  American 
poet,  as  it  strikes  most  travellers,  as  a  common  feature 
of  continental  Church  life  may  one  day  be  no  less 
common  in  our  own  Communion. 

There  was  no  rectory  belonging  to  All  Hallows', 
and  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time  he  held  the  living 
Stone  lived  on  the  heights  at  Clapton,  coming  down 
every  day  to  spend  many  hours  in  the  vestry  of  his 
church  in  reading  and  writing  and  in  interviews  with 
those  who  came  to  him  for  advice  and  counsel. 
During  the  course  of  his  ministry  there  were  many 
at  all  times  who  so  came.  This  of  course  entailed  a 
considerable  strain,  not  the  least  part  of  which  was 
the  constant  burden  of  correspondence.  With  regard 
to  this  most  responsible  and  difficult  part  of  the 
pastoral  office,  it  may  be  said  that  Stone's  spiritual 
letters  had  a  thoroughly  manly  tone,  and  were  per- 
meated with  common  sense.  "  Fasting,"  he  wrote  on 
one  occasion,  "  in  a  climate  like  this  means  simply 
*  away  with  any  redundancy  or  luxury.'  "  Much  work 
of  this  kind  was  done  within  the  walls  of  the  old 
vestry ;  and  so  constantly  was  he  to  be  found  there, 
that  his  friends  used  laughingly  to  speak  of  him  as 
another  "  Symon  the  anker." 

Stone  had  hoped,  when  he  was  relieved  from  his 
heavy  labours  at  Haggerston,  that  he  might  be  able 
to  give  himself  largely  to  literary  work.  But  twenty 
years  of  the  "  burden  and  heat  of  the  day  "  had  told 
on  him  severely,  and  had  much  impaired  the  fresh- 


ness  of  his  powers  in  this  as  in  other  directions. 
This  is  to  be  noticed  in  the  second  volume  of  his 
collected  poems,  the  Lays  of  lona,  which  he  pub- 
lished in  1897,  for  the  most  successful  portions  of 
it  consist  of  the  poems  and  hymns  written  a  good 
many  years  earlier.  The  lona  poems  do  not  show 
Stone  at  his  best,  although  he  gave  an  immense 
amount  of  care  and  trouble  to  them,  and  himself 
regarded  them  as,  he  wrote,  "  the  literary  effort  of 
my  life."  "  Not  one  page,"  he  goes  on,  "  has  been 
written  without  prayer  for  the  consecration  of  the 
Holy  Ghost."  We  may  recognise  the  spirit  which 
animated  the  author,  while  we  are  obliged  to  confess 
that  seriousness  of  purpose  is  not  enough  to  make 
good  poetry.  In  fact,  the  lona  poems  are  very  largely 
spoilt  by  the  excessive  amount  of  pains  spent  upon 
them.  Other  literary  projects  were  begun,  as,  for 
instance,  more  than  one  story,  but  these  were  aban- 
doned before  publication. 

During  these  years,  however,  he  did  much  valuable 
hymnological  work  in  connexion  with  Hymns  An- 
cient and  Modern.  He  was  for  many  years  on  the  com- 
mittee of  the  book,  and  always  took  great  delight  in 
the  meetings,  and  he  was  at  work  in  making  notes 
and  suggestions  for  a  new  edition  almost  up  to  the 
day  of  his  death. 

For  Stone  was  gradually  approaching  the  end  of 
his  earthly  ministry.  "  Better,"  said  Kingsley,  "  to 
wear  out  than  to  rust  out,'  and   Stone,  who,  however 

6S  MEMOIR   OF   S.    J.    STONE 

unlike  him  in  other  ways,  was  singularly  like  Kingsley 
in  the  possession  of  a  strong  physique  in  combination 
with  highly-strung  nerves,  was  rapidly  wearing  out. 
He  had  been  in  bad  health  during  1899,  and  in  the 
autumn  of  that  year  the  grave  symptoms  appeared 
of  a  terrible  internal  disorder.  It  was  on  St.  Luke's 
Day  that  the  physicians  pronounced  that  the  case 
was  incurable,  and  from  that  time  onwards  he  lived 
face  to  face  with  death. 

Some  time  before  this  he  had  moved  from  Clapton, 
for  he  was  destined  to  end  his  days  where  his  school- 
time  had  been  spent,  in  his  dearly-loved  Charter- 
house. By  the  kindness  of  the  master,  he  was  able 
to  rent  four  vacant  sets  of  rooms  amongst  the 
"  Brethren  of  noble  poverty,"  as  the  old  men  are 
called  in  the  similar  foundation  of  St.  Cross,  at 
Winchester,  and  here  he  settled  down  in  the  quaint 
old  quadrangle,  which  might  belong  to  an  Oxford 
college,  though  it  is  only  a  few  steps  removed  from 
the  roar  of  the  City.  He  knew  that  he  had  before 
him  weeks,  or  it  might  be  months,  of  patient  waiting 
and  probably  of  severe  suffering.  Bishop  Creighton, 
himself  beginning  to  tread  the  same  path  of  pain, 
wrote  to  him  :  "It  is  a  sore  trial  to  have  to  wait  in 
patience,  but  we  '  tarry  the  Lord's  leisure '  in  many 
ways."  Friends  came  to  see  him  and  found  him 
cheerful  and  uncomplaining,  delighting  in  the  oppor- 
tunities for  reading  which  he  was  enjoying  for  the 
first  time  for  many  years,  and  ready  as  ever  to  give 

ALL  HALLOWS',  LONDON   WALL         69 

out  to  others.  As  the  fact  of  his  illness  came  to  be 
known,  hundreds  of  letters  of  sympathy  poured  in, 
numbers  of  them  from  people  who  were  quite 
strangers  to  him,  but  who  had  found  help  in  his 
poems  or  hymns. 

He  did  not  resign  his  living,  but  had  the  help  of 
an  old  friend,  who  acted  as  curate  to  him,  and  he  was 
able  to  attend  the  services  every  Sunday  until  the 
end,  often  to  celebrate  and  even  once  or  twice  to 
preach.  All  through  1900  he  kept  up  his  interest  in 
life,  in  spite  of  frequent  and  increasing  attacks  of 
pain.  At  the  beginning  of  his  illness  he  wrote  the 
Meditation  in  a  Night  of  Pain,  on  p.  1 1 6,  which,  al- 
though hitherto  unpublished,  has  already  brought 
comfort  to  many  sufferers.  As  the  days  went  on 
his  faith  and  happiness  visibly  increased.  "  Mentally 
and  spiritually,"  he  wrote,  "  I  am  fond  of  telling  my 
friends  that  I  live  in  a  kind  of  thankful  wonder  that 
I  should  be  so  encompassed  by  the  goodness  of  God 
and  the  lovingkindness  of  men."  One  of  his  oldest 
friends  whites :  "  I  saw  him  repeatedly  a  short  time 
before  his  death,  and  should  not  desire  to  see  a  more 
manly  and  Christian  approach  to  the  change.  The 
interests  of  his  parish  were  his  main  thought,  and  his 
main  desire  and  delight  was  to  be  able  to  take  part 
in  the  services,  especially  the  Eucharist.  The  im- 
pression he  left  on  all  was  most  salutary  and  bene- 
ficial, and  showed  fully  the  strength  of  the  influence 
which  had  been  the  spring  of  his  life."     His  humility 

70  MEMOIR    OF   S.    J.    STONE 

and  his  deep  sense  of  penitence  struck  all  those  who 
saw  him.  The  hymn  which  was  most  constantly  on 
his  lips  was  one  which  he  had  always  loved,  Cowper's 
Thej-e  is  a  fou7itain  filled  witJi  blood. 

So  for  just  over  a  year  Samuel  John  Stone  walked 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  comforted 
by  the  rod  and  the  staff  of  the  Good  Shepherd,  The 
crushing  attacks  of  pain  increased,  and  he  was  worn 
to  a  grey  shadow  of  his  former  self.  But  still  his 
interest  in  life  continued  fresh  and  unbroken ;  he 
followed  every  detail  of  the  South  African  War ; 
he  turned  again  and  again  to  his  favourite  poets  ; 
he  constantly  saw  his  friends,  still  ministered  to  his 
people,  still  kept  up  his  spiritual  correspondence, 
still  Sunday  by  Sunday  came  to  All  Hallows'.  On 
his  better  days  he  was  able  to  go  about  in  the  City ; 
when  he  was  confined  to  his  rooms  he  used  to  delight 
in  watching  the  old  pensioners  feeding  their  pigeons  or 
pacing  about  below  his  windows.  One  of  his  Windsor 
people,  who  had  been  mission  woman  at  Haggerston, 
and  now  lived  with  him  as  housekeeper,  tended  him 
devotedly  to  the  end.  He  was  cheered  by  the  friend- 
ship of  the  Master  of  the  Charterhouse  and  his  wife, 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Haig  Brown,  and  by  the  ministrations  of 
Bishop  Ingram,  at  that  time  still  Bishop  of  Stepney. 

One  night  in  the  middle  of  November  he  was  told 
that  the  morning  star  was  shining  with  exquisite 
beauty,  and,  getting  up,  he  looked  at  it  with  the 
greatest    joy    and    delight,    reciting    the    words    of 

ALL  hallows;  LONDON  WALL    71 

Jephthah's     daughter     from     TJie    Dream    of   Fair 

Women — 

" '  Glory  to  God,'  she  sang,  and  past  afar, 

Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the  wood, 
Toward  the  morning  star." 

And  he  kept  repeating  the  words  "  Glory  to  God  "  at 
intervals,  sometimes  loud  and  sometimes  low,  until 
the  end,  which  came  rapidly  and  peacefully  a  few 
days  later,  on  Monday,  November  19th,  1900.  Only 
the  day  before,  which  was  the  Twenty-third  Sunday 
after  Trinity,  he  had  been  to  All  Hallows'  for  the  last 
time.  On  the  very  day  of  his  death  he  had  written 
one  or  two  letters,  one  of  which  contained  the  follow- 
ing words :  "  Sometimes  I  am  in  such  pain  that  I  can 
neither  write  nor  dictate  ;  at  others,  as  now,  I  am  just 
able  to  write  '  with  mine  own  hand.'  But  whether  at 
the  worst  or  the  best  in  a  bodily  state,  you  will  rejoice 
with  me  to  hear  that,  spiritually ,  I  am  not  only  in 
patience  but  in  joy  of  heart  and  soul."  Miss  Yonge's 
Heartsease  was  afterwards  found  on  his  table  lying 
open  at  the  second  chapter,  his  spectacles  upon  the 
page.  On  the  table  at  the  other  side  of  his  chair, 
within  reach  of  his  hand,  was  his  favourite  copy  of 
Tennyson,  well  used  and  full  of  many  notes.  The 
summons  had  come  quickly  at  the  last.  A  few  hours 
of  unconsciousness,  and  one  more  Carthusian  had 
answered  Adsiim. 

The  funeral  took  place  four  days  later,  on  Friday, 
November  23rd.     The  first  part  of  the  service  was 

72  MEMOIR   OF  S.   J.   STONE 

taken  at  All  Hallows'  by  the  Bishop  of  Stepney. 
Half  an  hour  or  more  before  the  service  began  a 
little  bird  flew  in  at  one  of  the  windows  of  the 
church,  and  in  the  perfect  stillness  trilled  for  a 
moment  or  two  what  fancy  might  deem  the  fare- 
well dirge  of  the  beasts  and  birds  for  the  poet  and 
lover  of  nature.  It  was  an  incident"  which  Stone 
himself  would  have  dearly  loved.  The  little  church 
was  presently  crowded  with  a  sorrowful  congrega- 
tion, where,  besides  his  relations,  old  friends  and  old 
curates,  together  with  numbers  from  his  two  London 
parishes,  and  many  others  who  had  felt  his  influence 
in  various  ways,  were  held  in  the  bonds  of  a  common 
and  heartfelt  grief.  The  strains  of  The  Church's  one 
Foundation  rang  out,  and  as  the  congregation  took 
up  the  words  the  walls  of  the  little  church  seemed  to 
fall  away  and  the  gloom  of  the  November  day  to 
disperse  as  they  sang  of 

With  God  the  Three  in  One, 
And  mystic  sweet  communion 
With  those  whose  rest  is  won." 

Never  before,  one  would  suppose,  although  the 
hymn  has  been  sung  by  no  less  than  millions  of 
Church  people  in  all  lands — alike  at  Lambeth  con- 
ferences and  in  mud-walled  African  villages,  at  great 
cathedral  festivals  and  in  tiny  country  churches,  by 
Archbishop  Benson  and  a  party  of  working-men  in 
his    private    chapel,    and    at    open-air    services    in 

ALL  HALLOWS\  LOxNDON  WALL         73 

the  slums — never  did  it  fall  on  the  ear  with  more 
moving  and  inspiring  meaning  than  when  it  was  sung 
as  his  requiem  over  the  coffin  which  held  all  that  was 
mortal  of  its  author. 

The  contrast  of  feeling  was  startling  on  passing 
from  the  church  into  the  street.  It  was  high  noon 
in  the  City,  and  the  funeral  procession  came  out  into 
the  midst  of  the  swarming  press  of  hurrying  feet. 
The  business  men  remained  arrested  for  a  moment 
by  the  unusual  sight,  and  then  the  human  tide  surged 
on  as  before. 

A  little  later  the  mourners  met  again  at  Norwood, 
where  the  service  at  the  graveside  was  said  by  one 
of  his  old  curates.  The  cemetery  at  Norwood  lies, 
as  it  were,  between  the  country  and  the  town,  just 
beyond  the  roar  of  London,  which  had  become  so 
dear  to  him,  in  a  spot  from  which  there  is  a  wide 
prospect  of  the  Surrey  hills.  His  grave  is  marked  by 
a  tall  lona  cross. 

We  live  in  an  age  when  life  spins  on  so  rapidly 
that  the  memory  of  our  greatest  and  our  best  serves 
soon  to  grow  dim  and  distant,  for 

"  Each  day  brings  its  petty  dust 
Our  soon  choked  souls  to  fill 
And  we  forget  because  we  must, 
And  not  because  we  will." 

But  if  the  poet,  as  Horace  knew,  can  escape  oblivion 
by  his  verse,  the  poet  who  has  written  a  great  hymn 
will   live  through   many  generations  on   the  lips  of 

74  MEMOIR   OF   S.    J.    STONE 

men.  Of  this  immortality  the  author  of  The  Church's 
one  Foundation  is  secure.  Yet  it  is  but  a  cold  immor- 
tality if  the  poet  lives  merely  as  a  name  and  nothing 
more,  if  his  personality  is  obliterated  and  the  features 
of  the  man  himself  are  no  longer  to  be  discerned. 
In  the  foregoing  pages,  then,  the  writer  has  attempted 
to  preserve,  for  the  generations  to  come,  the  features 
not  only  of  the  sacred  poet,  but  also  of  the  parish 
priest,  of  whom  at  his  death  his  Bishop  wrote  that, 
"few  men  in  the  diocese  have  lived  such  useful  lives  of 
quiet  beneficence,  or  have  given  more  beautiful  ex- 
amples of  a  Christian  life."  These  are  the  words  of 
Bishop  Creighton,  who,  beneath  a  brilliancy  of  in- 
tellect which  all  admired,  had  a  full  measure  of  the 
historian's  perception  of  character,  and  not  only  that, 
but  also  the  pastoral  eye  which  is  keen  to  mark  the 
beauties  and  graces  of  a  devout  soul. 

So  this  is  the  brief  record  of  the  life  of  one  whom 
the  writer  loved,  because  in  him  the  attractiveness  of 
a  poetic  nature  was  deepened  through  the  consecra- 
tion given  it  by  the  priestly  character,  and  most  of 
all  because  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  at  every 
moment  that  beneath  his  cassock  a  warm  human 
heart  was  always  throbbing  and  beating. 



Written  in  Temple  Gardens,   London, 
in  memory  of  March  19-23,  1 86 1. 

The  din  of  the  great  town  is  on  my  ears 
And  not  the  voices  of  the  wood  and  wave, 
And  the  lark's  warbUng  :  the  pure  air  and  sky, 
With  its  cloud  isles  and  mountains,  is  all  past ; 
Above  me  stretches  the  thick  smoke  and  mist 
That  shuts  heaven  from  the  city  ;  and  no  more 
Beneath  me  glides  the  king  of  silver  streams, 
The  river  of  all  rivers — yon  black  flood 
That  surges  past  me  now  and  bears  its  name 
Is  not  the  Thames  I  know,  the  Thames  I  love. 

Oh  for  the  gleaming  river  once  again, 
That  seemed  to  bear  us  through  a  golden  age 
In  those  four  days  :  woods,  meadows,  hamlets,  farms, 
Spires  in  the  vale,  and  towers  upon  the  hill. 
The  great  chalk  quarries  glaring  thro'  the  shade, 
The  pleasant  lanes  and  hedgerows,  and  those  homes 
Which  seemed  the  very  dwellings  of  content 
And  peace  and  sunshine — oh  for  the  fresh  lawns 
That  ran  down  brightly  to  the  water's  edge 
To  drink  the  waves — with  freshness  never  known 



In  all  the  glow  and  glare  of  other  lands. 

Oh  for  the  music  of  the  livelong  day, 

The  songs  of  woods  and  waters,  and  the  lark 

Cleaving  his  way  through  the  thin  air  to  heaven, 

With  that  loud  carol  like  a  spirit  freed 

From  chains  and  darkness.    How  we  sometimes  paused 

And  let  the  boat  glide  at  the  river's  will, 

And  how,  in  the  short  pause,  upon  our  ears, 

Far  in  the  distance  downwards,  there  would  come 

A  murmur  from  the  cataract  that  flowed 

Off  from  the  side-stream — first  a  low  deep  hum, 

A  very  dream  of  waters  ;  louder  then, 

And  still  more  loud  as  the  swift  boat  sped  on 

Nearer  and  nearer ;  now  the  full-toned  flood 

Drowns  with  majestic  thunder  voice  and  oar 

Till  the  boat  bears  us  past  it ;  and  the  sound 

Throws  after  us  its  harmony,  and  then 

Subsides  again  into  the  dream  and  dies. 

The  spirit  of  the  Spring  was  in  the  woods, 
And  woke  within  them  murmurs  that  expressed 
A  joy  of  expectation,  very  low, 
A  musing  gladness  like  the  voice  of  one 
Who  whispers  doubts  because  he  is  so  sure  : 
A  prelude  to  the  burst  of  happy  song 
That  hails  fruition  of  the  promised  joy, 
The  march  of  coming  Summer  through  the  land. 

Never  without  our  music  !     When  the  woods. 
Left  far  behind,  were  lost  to  ear  and  eye, 
Or  yet  below  unreached  for  sight  and  sound ; 


AVhen  trees  were  rare,  or  seen  far  off  unheard 
Along  the  level ;  when  the  waterfalls — 
Melodious  visitations  far  between — 
Were  no  more  with  us ;  when  the  lark  was  down 
Among  the  furrows,  and  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  that  aerial  fountain  of  sweet  sound 
Was  silent  for  a  season — then  perchance 
Would  float  the  chime  of  bells  upon  the  breeze 
From  some  old  tower,  or  sound  of  happy  life 
From  some  bright  village,  or  with  distant  hum, 
And  deepening  roll,  and  palpitating  roar, 
Charged  down  the  great  fire  chariot  of  the  train, 
And  passed  us  like  a  whirlwind  and  went  by. 
Nor  seldom  too  the  boat  and  we  sped  on 
With  silence  on  the  banks  and  on  the  stream 
Save  the  long  swish  of  oars,  the  dip,  the  stroke 
That  hurled  the  troubled  water  far  astern 
In  little  battling  whirlpools,  soon  at  peace ; 
And  that  was  real  music  in  our  ears. 
As  men  that  wander  upon  alien  shores 
Hear  some  loved  song  of  their  own  land  again. 
And  feel  their  blood  run  quicker  :  so  that  sound 
Kept  ever  stirring  pleasant  memories 
Of  many  a  bright  laborious  afternoon 
On  the  old  Isis ;  grim  experiences 
Of  training  pulls  in  eight  oars — down  the  course 
To  Iffley,  past  the  lasher,  through  the  lock. 
Then  on  to  Sandford,  turn,  and  home  again 
From  Iflfliey  racing-pace — "lift,  lift,"  and  in 
From  Saunders'  bridge  "at  40  ! "     Oh  the  grind 


We  grumbled  at,  and  loved  so  for  its  worth, 

So  far  above  all  else  for  growth  of  strength 

And  moral  muscle :  then  those  mighty  days 

That  brought  the  Races ;  oh  the  toil,  the  strife— 

Upon  the  stream,  the  rushing  regular  oars, 

"  The  music  of  the  many  as  of  one," 

The  forward  shoot  of  straightened  backs  and  arms, 

Then  the  strong  lift  together ;  on  the  shore 

A  shouting  frantic  crowd— a  victory  here, 

There  a  defeat  as  glorious  !— those  were  days 

Which  memory  fostered  in  her  safest  hold 

And  needed  Uttle  spur  to  wake  again. 

So  passed  the  time— a  time  that  fled  on  wings 
Too  eager  for  our  liking  :  and  at  last 
We  lost  the  green  fields  and  the  pleasant  woods, 
With  all  their  happy  voices  and  glad  scenes 
Of  beauty  and  repose.     The  stream  grew  dark, 
The  light  shone  fainter  through  a  sky  less  clear. 
The  approaching  city  tainted  wave  and  air. 
But  still  we  failed  not  of  a  fitting  close 
To  such  a  voyage.     Came  a  day,  our  last. 
Which  saw  us  waiting,  watching  on  the  shore. 
Among  ten  thousand  eager  too  as  we 
To  see  the  issue— which  should  bear  the  palm. 
Our  Isis  or  the  Cam,  for  stalwart  sons. 
Broad  backs  and  chests  and  iron-sinewed  arms 
Knit  with  a  resolute  courage  and  strong  will 
That  shunned  not  stormy  weeks  of  toil  and  pains 
To  weld  their  strength  with  hard-learnt  skill,  and  wm 
The  mastery  of  the  waters— aye,  and  prove 


In  whose  veins  flowed  the  truest  purest  stream 
Of  Viking  blood  and  spirit.     On  they  came — 
The  throbbing  expectation  where  we  stood, 
Far  up  the  course  turned  every  straining  eye 
To  see  who  led  the  way — The  dark  blue  oars  ! 
Tis  Oxford  wins  ! — and  Cambridge  far  behind 
Rallied  in  vain,  and  the  great  race  was  won. 
Be  no  more  said,  but  that  the  victor's  fame, 
Which  pales  not  set  beside  the  brightest  years, 
Sheds  lustre  on  the  vanquished,  with  a  grace 
For  such  a  fruitless  struggle.     But  for  us 
More  than  for  others  'twas  a  day  indeed 
To  be  remembered,  crowning  such  a  time 
With  such  a  sequel.     Now  it  is  all  past. 
And  all  that  bright  experience  of  the  Thames 
Is  but  a  memory : — but  although  my  eyes, 
In  this  broad  water  flowing  darkly  past, 
See  little  to  recall  the  clear  bright  flood 
That  bore  us  down  so  blithely  those  four  days. 
Yet  still  it  bears  thy  name,  and  even  here, 
Thou  true  Pactolus  !  heart  and  voice  are  fain, 
Despite  thy  smoky  shores  and  clouded  waves, 
To  give  thee  all  their  little,  and  heap  up 
Full  phrase  and  epithet  to  speak  my  love 
And  swell  thy  praise,  thou  paragon  of  streams. 
Thou  lovely,  lordly,  mild,  majestic  Thames  ! 


"Eheu!  fut^aces,  Postumc,  Postiime, 
Labuntur  ;inni." 

Good-bye  at  last  to  Oxford !  with  full  eyes 

I  watch  the  autumn  day  grow  dark  and  die, 
And  see  the  year  put  on  its  saddest  guise, 
To  sadden  this  Good-bye. 

This  sorrowing  rain  seems  but  the  tearful  grief 

That  pride  forbids  although  the  heart  be  fain. 
And  that  regretful  wind  seems  the  relief, 
In  utterance,  of  pain. 

Dim,  as  I  thread  the  twilight,  on  my  gaze 

The  "glorious  street"  Ues  wrapt  in  misty  gloom. 
And  in  grieved  sort  like  statues  of  past  days 
The  old  towers  darkly  loom. 

I  hear  "  Old  Tom  "  announce  the  dying  light, 

The  deep  hoarse  voice  that  I  shall  hear  no  more ; 
Hoarser  and  deeper  seems  the  note  this  night 
Than  in  the  days  of  yore. 



Good-bye  to  walls  and  towers  I  know  so  well, 

And  love  as  dearly— most  of  all  to  thine^ 
Wherein  my  lot  "  in  pleasant  places  "  fell, 
Kind  Nurse  and  Mother  mine  ! 

May  Heaven  thee  prosper !  and  good-bye  to  thee, 

My  noble  Isis,  loved  so  all  these  years ; 
Echoes  of  gallant  strife  right  gloriously 
E'en  now  ring  in  mine  ears  : 

And  mingling  with  them  comes  a  measured  strain, 

The  tramp  and  music  of  a  marching  band ; 
I  fight  my  bloodless  "  battles  o'er  again," 
In  arms  for  father-land. 

"These  'twill  be  joy  to  recollect,"  'tis  said. 

Though  with  a  tinge  of  sorrow,  being  gone  : 
Oxford,  with  me  the  dead  past  is  not  dead, 
Though  I  must  needs  pass  on. 

Should  I  not  love  thee  ?  and  for  more  than  these. 
By  feasts  (ah,  sought  too  waywardly  !)  of  thine 
Where  sat  the  Stagyrite,  and  Socrates, 
And  "  Poets  poured  us  wine." 

Aye,  and  for  more  !  by  all  the  eager  search 

The  wisdom-quest  of  vague  perplexed  youth  : 
By  the  One  Word  made  sure ;  by  the  One  Church 
Known  as  the  Ground  of  Truth. 

^  Pembroke  College. 


Good-bye  is  "  God  be  with  thee  ! "     Even  so 

May  God  thee  keep — above  all  fears  I  pray — 
Truth's  changeless  champion,  Error's  strongest  foe, 
Till  His  own  day. 

— •' ^ 

E.    B.    BROWNING 


Jn  /ibcmoriam 

Not,  Florence,  for  the  glory  of  thy  skies. 
For  those  grand  mountains,  for  the  golden  flow 
Of  sweet-voiced  Arno  through  the  vale  below, 
Not  for  the  Eden  land  that  round  thee  lies 
With  claim  for  fairest  in  a  land  most  fair, 
Do  men  award  thee  such  a  crown  to  wear 

Among  the  nations.     In  thee  lived  and  loved 
That  Dante  whom  men  call  "  The  Florentine  " 
(And  spite  thine  old  contempt  his  fame  is  thine) ; 
In  thee  Savonarola  died  and  proved 
His  indignation  righteous ;  and  in  thee 
Giotto  built  an  immortality  : 

These  names,  nor  these  alone,  do  give  thy  name 
A  greater  glory  e'en  than  Nature's  hand 
In  all  her  large  grace  to  thy  Tuscan  land, 
Seen  through  the  dark  of  ages  like  a  flame  : 
And  now,  behold,  another  Memory  throws 
A  fair  fresh  leaf  upon  thy  crowned  brows. 



Now  doubly  is  our  English  homage  won, 
That  thou  hast  nursed  with  such  a  tender  care 
An  English  flower  too  frail  for  English  air, 
With  thy  sweet  breezes,  and  thy  radiant  sun  : 
And  doubly  art  thou  dear  that  in  thee  lies 
All  of  our  greatest  poetess  that  dies. 

Ah  !  songless  now  the  full-toned  utterance 
That  spake  the  language  of  such  lofty  thought 
And  passionate  feeling  to  such  music  wrought, 
What  time  from  Casa  Guidi  o'er  th'  expanse 
Of  men  and  minds  she  gazed  on  Italy, 
Vexed  and  upheaving  like  a  troubled  sea. 

Lost  is  the  singer  that  so  nobly  sang 

God's  Truth  and  Beauty : — closed  the  wondrous  eyes 

That  saw  so  much  of  heaven  beneath  the  skies  : 

Silent  the  clarion  that  so  sweetly  rang : 

And  passed  the  poet  from  us  to  that  throng 

Where  all  are  poets  of  diviner  song. 

The  "  Wine  of  Cyprus  "  flows  for  her  no  more 
Who  drinks  of  better  fountains  :  mysteries, 
Of  which  she  sang  in  vision,  now  she  sees 
Revealed  behind  the  veil  on  the  far  shore. 
In  the  clear  light  of  that  eternal  day 
Which  after  dawning  fadeth  not  away. 

E.    B.    BROWNING  87 

The  "  Drama  of  her  Exile  "  is  all  done, 

And  now  with  earthly  mists  no  longer  dim 

Her  eyes  are  rapt  upon  those  "  Seraphim  " 

To  see  whose  "  wondrous  faces  "  round  the  throne, 

And  hear  whose  "  most  sweet  music,"  in  past  lay 

Our  hearts  grew  solemn  as  we  heard  her  pray. 

And  we  who  read,  "  No  more  vain  words  be  said," 
Seem  too  to  hear  the  "  near  Hosannas  "  roll ; 
And  in  the  bliss  that  crowns  the  living  soul 
Forget  the  sorrow  brooding  o'er  the  dead  : 
Exultant,  that  the  spiritual  breath 
Triumphs  for  ever  over  pain  and  death. 


3n  ^cmortam 

Another  beacon-light  blown  out  above  us  ; 

Another  buoy-bell  stilled  upon  the  sea ; 
Another  pilot  of  the  hearts  that  love  us 
Passed  from  our  company. 

Blown  out,  above  the  coast  line  frowning  grimly ; 

Stilled,  o'er  the  fatal  silence  of  the  shoals ; 
Passed,  from  the  few  who  watch  for  us  undimly 
The  Cynosure  of  souls. 

An  hour  ago,  and  how  the  light  was  beaming 

O'er  iron  rocks  in  smile  of  tender  cheer. 
Or,  bravely  at  our  need,  a  pharos  streaming 
O'er  surging  shocks  of  fear. 

An  hour  ago,  and  as  the  tide  flowed  faster, 

And  we  by  dim  dread  shallows  swept  along. 
How  in  our  ears  full-toned  against  disaster 
Pealed  out  the  stern  sweet  song. 

'  Bishop  Wilberforce,   who  was  killed   by  a  fall   from   his  horse, 

July  19,  1873.  [Ed.] 



An  hour  ago,  and  at  the  hehii  serenely, 

His  steadfast  eye  upon  the  steadfast  Star 
We  saw  him  stand  and,  lovingly  as  keenly. 
Steer  for  the  Haven  far. 

And  now,  and  in  a  moment,  is  all  ended  ? 

Gloom  for  the  light,  and  silence  for  the  sound  ? 
And  by  that  faithful  presence  undefended 
Sails  on  the  Homeward-bound  ? 

We  see,  hear,  hold  him  yet !     To  our  emotion 

Only  a  change  of  deeper  awe  is  given ; 
Naught  dies  upon  the  spiritual  ocean 
That  had  its  life  from  Heaven. 

Still  do  we  see — not  now  the  changeful  splendour 

Lambent  or  sparkling,  leaping  through  the  night — 
But  the  abiding  glow,  most  deep,  most  tender, 
A  great  life's  lasting  light. 

Still  do  we  hear — not  now  the  silvern  laughter 

We  loved  to  catch  'mid  many  a  mightier  tone — 
But  this — the  golden  cadence  that  hereafter 
All  memory  shall  own. 

Still  do  we  hold — not  now  the  presence  human, 

Kind,  fearless  eye,  frank  hand,  and  vigorous  form — 
But,  closer  yet,  the  inner  and  the  true  man 
That  steered  us  through  the  storm ; 


To  guide  us  still  who  loved  him  !  cheering,  warning, 

Past  rock  and  shoal,  and  through  the  blinding  foam, 
Until  the  Homeward-bound  at  the  clear  morning 
Shall  be  at  last  at  home. 

Ah,  Saint,  there  are  who  in  the  heavenly  places, 

After  the  Vision  of  the  Form  Divine, 
Shall  greet  not  one  among  the  blissful  faces 
More  wistfully  than  thine  ! 



Calm  sea  : 
One  water  broad  and  bright  beneath  the  sun, 
Near  and  afar,  in  peace  and  silence,  one ; 
The  long  shore-shallow  with  the  distant  deep, 
One  still  immensity  : 

Infinitude  fallen  on  sleep. 

How  bright  and  beautiful  a  peace  ! 
One  fain  would  listen  for  the  sleeper's  breath — 
The  giant  sleeper,  sleeping  like  a  child 
By  some  sweet  mother  into  rest  beguiled — 
For  this  is  calm  of  slumber,  not  of  death  ; 
The  mighty  pulses  only  seem  to  cease  ; 
The  great  heart  of  the  sea, 
Throbbing  unheard,  invisibly, 
Beats  not  the  less  with  the  resistless  power 
Of  his  fierce  anger's  most  tremendous  hour. 
His  passions  only  hide — how  soon. 
And  whence  we  know  not,  there  may  come 
A  cloud  across  the  splendid  noon. 
And  winds  to  wake  him  from  this  summer  swoon ; 



And  then,  no  longer  dumb, 
Shall  his  loud  tongue  tell  fearfully  and  far 
Again  the  giant  girds  himself  for  war ! 

Yet,  though  this  quiet  marks  no  dearth 
Of  strength  and  life — repose  but  not  decay — 
Here  lurketh  Death ;  O  great,  and  strong,  and  free, 
Death  waits  to  lay  his  palsying  hand  on  thee ! 
Is  it  not  writ  that,  on  a  day 
When  sweeter  heavens  shall  smile  on  purer  earth, 
There  shall  be  no  more  sea  ? 
Yea,  thou  shalt  die  : 
What  matter  if  thine  hour  be  far  or  nigh  ? 
Lo,  not  less  surely  ebbs  thy  life  away 
Than  yonder  splendour  fails  from  off  the  land, 
Or  thine  own  dreamy  tide  is  slipping  from  the  strand  ! 

Calm  Sea  : 
Repose  how  rare,  and,  as  the  moments  fleet, 
Ever  to  seem  more  wonderful  and  sweet ! 

The  little  children  do  not  shrink 
To  trust  their  tender  steps  beyond  his  brink, 
So  faint  a  ripple  rolls  he  to  their  feet. 

Only  a  kiss  it  seems 
Of  one  who  loves  them  in  the  land  of  dreams. 
Sunny  and  placid  are  their  childish  years  : 
Pure  pleasure's  light,  not  passion's,  in  their  eyes, 
Calm  on  the  wide  depths  of  their  sleeping  souls. 
They  reck  not  of  such  possibilities 
As  lie,  within  my  vision,  there. 


And  make  my  heart  already  sick  with  fears, 
Because  already  in  mine  ears 
The  wind  grows  wild,  the  storm-wave  rolls, 

And  cries  go  up  in  pain,  and  vows  in  prayer, 

Mid  silences,  more  dreadful,  of  despair. 

Uncertain  Sea,  uncertain  Life, 
Of  both  how  fair  the  calm,  how  quick  the  strife  ! 

Yet,  this  side  heaven,  shall  both  be  dear : 
The  "  Sea  is  His  "  whose  are  yon  depths  above. 
And  Life  is  His  whose  gifts  are  all  of  love. 

Away  !  thou  poor  pale  Fear, 
O  Sea,  O  Life,  for  storm  or  calm  we  stand 
'Neath  the  safe  keeping  of  our  Father's  hand. 

Yet  if,  O  Sea,  thou  art  so  dear. 
So  dear  as  this,  we  cannot  spare  thee  here, 
Shall  we  not  miss  thee  in  the  glorious  Land  ? — 

Nay,  for  thou  pleasest  eye  and  ear. 
Sole  image  of  that  longed-for  Infinite  : 
O  image  faint  and  far  ! 

So  love  we  as  our  all  of  light — 
While  here  we  sojourn — day's  majestic  star. 
There  never  to  be  seen,  too  dimly  bright. 
Nor  missed  where,  born  of  God,  those  jasper  glories  are. 

O  Life,  despite  thine  ills,  so  fair, 
Is  this  unworthy  that  we  love  thee  here  ? 
O  nay,  because  we  hold  thee  dear 

More  gladly  will  we  let  thee  go, 
For  love  of  thee  makes  longing  to  be  there, 


Beyond  thy  bounds  above, 
Where  in  immortal  fulness  we  shall  know 
The  grandeur  and  the  beauty  and  the  love, 
Whereof  we  had  by  thee  faint  foretaste  here  below. 

O  Sea,  O  Life, 
The  pilgrim  lingers  where  he  may  not  dwell. 
Lingers  with  hopeful  heart  and  loving  eyes. 

And  with  a  voice  of  praise 
For  such  a  grace  shed  on  the  weary  ways 

That  lie  between  him  and  the  skies ; 
Such  grace  of  calm  or  grandeur  as  can  tell 
Prophetic  stories  of  that  far-off  home 
Whereto  at  last  his  happy  feet  shall  come. 

So,  till  his  pilgrimage  is  o'er. 
And  till  his  steps  shall  cease  upon  the  shore. 
No  craven  fears  his  loyal  faith  shall  quell : 
In  peace  or  passion,  in  repose  or  strife. 
He  loves  thee  well,  O  Sea,  O  Life,  he  loves  thee  well ! 



The  Spring-tide  air  was  breathing  balm 
Upon  the  waters  all  the  night, 

And  scarce  they  moved  when  morning  calm 
Gave  waking  soft  to  slumber  light, 

And  down  the  shore  came  children  three 

To  launch  a  mimic  argosy. 

Said  one — he  was  a  noble  boy. 
And  at  their  gallant  mock  emprise 

Looked  keenly,  with  the  glittering  joy 
Of  dawning  purpose  in  his  eyes — 

"  Thus  will  I  sail  from  strand  to  strand, 

And  fight  for  God  and  fatherland  ! " 

Said  one — she  was  the  elder  child. 

And  older  yet  in  all  her  ways, 
She  was  so  motherly  and  mild. 

So  meekly  wise  beyond  her  days — 
"  O'er  sea  or  land  I'll  never  roam, 
While  father  wants  his  maid  at  home." 



Then  lisped  a  third — in  whose  sweet  face 
Awoke  a  wistful  dreamy  smile, 

Reflection  of  the  loving  grace 

Of  one  whom  she  had  lost  awhile — 

"  I'll  sail  away  from  year  to  year, 

Until  I  find  my  mother  dear," 

Full  fifty  years  brought  evenfall 
Upon  that  morning  of  their  life. 

And,  scarred  with  wounds,  a  seaman  tall 
Came  slowly  homeward  from  the  strife ; 

Long  had  he  served  from  strand  to  strand 
The  cause  of  God  and  fatherland. 

He  found  a  man  of  ninety  years. 

Whose  dying  eyes  were  turned  to  bless 

A  maiden  old,  whose  gentle  tears 
Fell  quicker  at  that  mute  caress  : 

In  death  that  loving  hand  and  eye 
For  him,  as  ever,  still  were  nigh. 

The  third  ?     She  sailed,  ah  !  long  ago, 
And  found  her  mother  dear  at  rest : 

And  where  ?     It  is  enough  to  know 
'Twas  in  an  Eden  of  the  blest— 

'Twas  far  away,  beyond  the  foam, 

She  found  her  mother  dear  at  home. 


With  2  St.  Peter  iii.  lo  compare  Rom.  viii.  19-21 

Dear  friends  among  the  hills,  I  sit  at  home, 
Spending  a  leisure  hour  'twixt  toil  and  toil 
Here  in  the  east  of  Babylon,  and  think 
How  fair  the  mornings  were  a  week  ago. 
It  is,  forsooth,  September  still,  but  not 
The  same  September  to  my  eyes  and  ears ; 
It  is  not  bright,  it  does  not  blow  ;  the  eye, 
Dismally  peering  towards  the  chimney-tops, 
Sees  nothing  but  a  small  and  sickly  sun. 
Fog-stricken  ;  for  so  soon  the  month  of  mists 
Has  sent  his  haggard  herald  from  the  swamps. 
Though  he  be  yet  a  five  weeks'  march  away, 
To  bid  us  surely  look  for  him ;  the  ear, 
Amid  a  medley  of  suburban  sounds, 
Catches  not  one  of  nature ;  joyfully 
Would  it  exchange  for  such  a  calm  as  this — 
Doleful  and  chill  as  if  the  air  were  dead — 
The  rush  of  autumn  rains,  or  that  wild  roar 
You  wot  of,  such  a  madness  of  the  winds 
As  made  one  night  tremendous,  and,  alas  ! 
Ruined  far  ofif^  a  wonder  of  the  world. 

^  n.M.S.    Captain  was  lost  off  Cape  Finisterre  on   the   night  of 
September  7th,  1870. 

H  97 


Yet  memory  holds  most  dear  of  all  those  days 
The  calmest ;  'twas  a  day  she  will  not  lose 
Till  heart  and  mind  have  need  no  more  to  search 
The  stores  of  old  delight  for  pleasant  food 
Or  pastime.     Such  a  day  begins  below, 
In  no  faint  foretaste,  that  eternal  rest 
Remaining  for  God's  people.     Far  away 
Seemed  the  sad  world,  behind  the  hills  that  stood 
Shoulder  by  shoulder  shining  in  their  strength, 
Gigantic  warders  of  a  quiet  land  ; 
Parted  for  pasture  all  the  vales  beneath — 
The  long  drought  over  and  forgotten — smiled 
With  faces  fresh  and  fair,  being  full  at  heart 
With  gracious  rains  :  the  woodland  on  the  slopes 
Looked  up  with  life  renewed,  rejoicingly, 
As  if  it  stood  for  praise.     For  here  was  peace  . 
That  was  not  idle  sleep  :  too  real  a  life, 
Too  great  a  gladness,  mingled  with  the  calm 
For  slumber ;  and  the  brightness  was  like  song, 
Wide,  full,  but  all  too  fine  for  common  sound. 
A  reverence  seemed  to  temper  all  the  joy, 
And  make  it  worship  worthy  of  that  Fane 
Not  wrought  with  hands,  whose  dome  of  infinite  blue 
O'erarched  it  all,  as  peaceful  as  profound. 
Soothing  the  soul  with  vastness ;  as  it  were 
God  manifest  in  awful  tenderness 
Over  His  world. 


It  was  the  week's  first  day  : 
And  'twixt  the  hours  of  morn  and  evensong 
I  lay  before  those  hills,  beneath  that  heaven, 
Among  the  grasses  by  the  church,  and  watched 
And  felt  in  all  my  soul  that  awfulness 
And  beauty  of  repose. 

One  only  thought, 
A  darkness  and  a  discord,  thrust  itself 
Into  my  musing,  of  that  doom  of  fire 
Which  one  day  shall  destroy  all  earth  and  heaven. 
But  oh,  your  green  hills  would  not  suffer  it ! 
There  was  nor  speech  nor  language,  yet  my  heart, 
As  God  did  give  them  utterance,  could  hear 
Their  voice  interpreting  His  word. 

But  read. 
Thus  have  I  fashioned  faintly  for  your  ken 
The  form  of  my  complaint  and  their  reply  : — 

The  shining  hills  before  me  lay. 
My  musing  heart  was  fain  to  say, 
"  I  mourn,  ye  hills,  the  stern  decree 
""hat  saith,  '  Ye  shall  no  longer  be 

On  that  dread  day 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away.' " 

The  shining  hills  made  calm  reply, 
That  fell  upon  my  foolish  cry 
Like  words  that  silence,  gravely  mild, 
The  fretful  accents  of  a  child  : 

"  Beneath,  on  high, 
God's  work  is  good,  and  shall  not  die. 


"  Though  heaven  above  and  earth  below 
Shall  share  the  universal  woe, 
That  doom  of  fire  shall  but  destroy 
All  that  not  ministers  to  joy ; 

Yea,  even  so 
Full  life  and  beauty  shall  we  know. 

"  That  end  true  glory  shall  begin. 
That  doom  is  but  the  death  of  sin, 
That  night  is  mother  of  the  morn. 
In  travail  ere  the  light  is  born, 

That  woe  shall  win 
A  world  that  life  can  reign  within. 

"  Eternal  life  !  no  bounded  lease 
Of  hours  of  pleasure  and  of  peace. 
But  joys  of  service  and  of  rest. 
Of  blessing  and  of  being  blest. 

That  never  cease, 
And  only  change  by  sweet  increase. 

"  For,  thinkest  thou,  shall  then  be  dearth 
Of  aught  of  grandeur,  beauty,  mirth, 
That  now  makes  glad  the  sons  of  men  ? 
Shall  they  not  see  their  joys  again 

At  that  dread  birth 
Which  shall  renew  the  heaven  and  earth  ? 

"  Yea,  trust  that  He  Who  all  began 
Hath  for  the  end  His  perfect  plan  ; 

THE   ANSWER   OF  THE    HILLS        loi 

His  good  gifts  are  for  evermore  ! 
Creation  that  in  common  bore 

The  woful  ban, 
Shall  fail  not  of  the  bliss,  of  man, 

"  God's  pity  left  her  to  the  race 
He  would  win  back  into  His  grace. 
His  poet  sweet,  his  prophet  true  ! 
He  shall  her  youth  with  man's  renew, 

And  each  tear's  trace 
Wipe  ever  from  her  glorious  face  ! 

"  Then  shall  ye  see  the  field,  the  flood, 

The  restful  vale,  the  placid  wood. 

All  that  ye  loved  in  all  the  land  ! 

And  we,  whose  '  strength  is  His,'  shall  stand 

As  erst  we  stood, 
As  when  of  old  He  called  us  good. 

"  Then  come  !  for  supreme  joy  in  woe, 
Last  triumph  in  last  overthrow  ! 
In  all  thy  grace,  in  all  thy  power. 
Come  !  O  thou  sweet  tremendous  hour, 

Come  even  so. 
For  heaven  above  and  earth  below." 



"Out  of  the  deep." 

Fain  is  the  wakened  soul  to  try 
Her  pinions  in  the  golden  sky 
Of  peace  and  pardon  instantly  : 

But  they  are  clogged  by  thoughts  that  fill 
Her  mind  with  memories  of  ill, 
A  worldly  love,  a  carnal  will, 

And  she  is  forced  to  sit  and  weep, 
And  watch  alone  in  valleys  deep 
The  darker  shadows  onward  creep, 

As  though  to  whelm  her  in  a  tomb 
Of  utter  spiritual  gloom. 
Foretaste  of  the  eternal  gloom. 

"  My  sin !  "  the  low  despairing  sigh  ; 
"  My  sin ! "  the  exceeding  bitter  cry, 
Out  of  those  depths  is  heard  on  high  : 
1 02 


Glad  angels  hear  it  where  they  stand, 
And  wait — a  ministering  band — 
Their  Lord's  permission  and  command ; 

It  comes — and  swiftly,  down  from  heaven 

A  light  whereby  that  gloom  is  riven ! 

A  voice  of  power  and  peace,  "  Forgiven  ! " 

O  blessed  voice !     O  living  light ! 

To  wake  those  silent  depths,  and  smite 

With  beams  of  day  the  vale  of  night. 

But,  ah  !  not  yet  is  peace  complete, 
The  foemen,  fiercer  for  defeat, 
Strive  to  regain  their  ancient  seat. 

The  world,  forsaken,  brings  again 

Its  joys  and  cares  :  the  Will  would  fain 

Its  realm  recover  and  retain. 

And  though  that  Light  still  shineth  clear 
Through  those  new  shades,  and  though  the  ear 
Hears  still  that  Voice  it  loves  to  hear 

Speak,  as  of  old,  on  GaUlee, 

"  Peace  "  :  yet,  withal,  the  heart  must  see. 

And  hate  its  own  infirmity  : 

And  cries,  as  one  who  cries  for  breath, 
Worn  and  oppressed,  "  I  faint  beneath 
The  alien  body  of  this  death  ! " 


'Tis  well,  for,  otherwise  than  so. 

The  soul,  disdaining  to  lie  low, 

A  deeper  depth  of  ill  might  know — 

A  darker  gloom,  a  gulf  more  wide. 

Because  a  self-exalting  pride 

Would  thrust  her  further  from  His  side. 

Therefore,  the  Church,  that  she  may  lead 
Her  children  Homewards,  hath  decreed 
This  Holy  Season  to  their  need ; 

Heavenwards,  Homewards  !  through  the  dense 
Dark  clouds  of  sorrow,  and  the  sense 
Of  present  frailty,  past  offence ; 

Heavenwards,  Homewards  !  by  the  road 
The  poor  in  spirit  ever  trod, 
And  tread,  in  pilgrimage  to  God. 

Heavenwards,  Homewards  !  till  they  win 
That  blest  inheritance,  wherein 
Is  no  more  sorrow,  no  more  sin. 


"  The  Master  saith,  My  time  is  at  hand  " 
St.  Matt.  xxvi.  i8. 

'  The  spirit  indeed  is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak  " 
St.  Matt.  xxvi.  41. 

Soon  will  the  Holy  Week  be  here ; 
It  is  as  if  my  Lord  were  near, 
And,  half  in  hope  and  half  in  fear, 

I  went  to  meet  Him,  so  to  be 

A  witness  of  the  agony 

And  bitter  passion  borne  for  me. 

"  In  hope  "  that  so  my  soul  may  gain 
Harvest  of  joy  from  seeds  of  pain  ; 
That,  flooding  over  heart  and  brain, 

A  deeper  sense  of  sinful  night 
May  drive  me  closer  to  the  Light 
To  read  His  Love  with  clearer  sight. 

"  In  fear  "  lest  even  while  I  weep. 
As  once  of  old,  forgetful  sleep 
Should  o'er  "  the  willing  spirit "  creep 


And  I  should  hear,  as  heard  the  Three, 

Those  words  of  chiding  sympathy, 

*'  Couldst  thou  not  watch  one  hour  with  Me  ?  " 

Be  Hope  the  stronger  !  O  be  Thou, 
Dear  Lord,  the  Guardian  of  my  vow 
To  keep  my  vigil  near  Thee  now  : 

Aid  my  "  weak  flesh  "  this  holy  tide. 

That  I,  despite  or  sloth  or  pride, 

May  watch  and  pray  as  at  Thy  side.     Amen. 


A  NIGHT  of  silence  and  of  gloom  : 
My  Master  lieth  in  the  tomb — 
Mine  was  the  sin  and  His  the  doom  ! 

So  on  this  awful  eventide, 

My  self-trust  gone,  my  wealth  of  pride 

All  spent  and  lost,  I  fain  would  hide. 

And  where  ? — Lo,  on  this  Eve  alone 
I  come  with  contrite  prayer  and  moan 
And  lay  me  down  before  the  Stone. 

All  is  so  still,  so  deadly  still — 
E'en  that  dread  scene  upon  the  Hill 
Scarce  shook  me  with  so  strong  a  thrill. 

For  Calvary  had  its  jeering  crowd, 

My  tears  were  check'd,  my  love  was  cow'd. 

My  pride  took  courage  'mid  the  proud. 

The  soldiers  sleeping  heed  me  not, 
Their  vigil  is  perforce  forgot : 
The  world  is  banish'd  from  the  spot. 


So  here  I  weep — for  none  are  near 
To  fill  my  craven  heart  with  fear 
Of  some  sharp  gibe  for  every  tear. 

And  the  deep  stillness  hath  a  cry 
Reaching  my  soul,  and  none  are  by 
To  drown  it  with  their  blasphemy. 

It  saith,  "  O  ingrate  heart,  for  thee 

The  passion  in  Gethsemane, 

For  thee  the  scourge,  the  mockery, 

"  The  scarlet  robe,  the  thorny  wreath. 
For  thee  the  load  He  sank  beneath. 
For  thee  the  Cross,  the  Cry,  the  Death ! 

"  Yea,  all  for  thee !  and  having  learn'd 
How  great  that  love  was,  hast  thou  spurn'd 
The  due  of  gratitude  it  earn'd  ? 

"Thankless  and  cold  !  thy  broken  vow 
Of  love  and  service  asks  thee  now, 
Here  at  His  tomb,  what  doest  thou  ?  " — 

Tis  true — yet  am  I  fain  to  come  : 

In  grief  I  have  no  other  home 

But  near  Him,  though  'tis  near  His  tomb. 

And  as  in  self-convicted  mood 
On  mine  ingratitude  I  brood, 
A  Voice  upon  the  solitude 

EASTER   EVE  109 

Breaks,  like  a  benediction  near, 

And  through  the  darkness  in  mine  ear 

Whispers  of  hope,  and  not  of  fear  : 

"  Yea,  all  for  thee  !  and  all  to  save  ! 

Forgives  He  not  as  He  forgave  ? 

Died  His  Love  with  Him  in  the  grave  ?  " 

•  ••••• 

So  on  this  holy  eventide 

I  lay  me  down  as  at  His  side, 

And  pray  to  die  as  He  has  died : 

That  I  may  rise  to  meet  the  strife 
With  this  dead  heart  renew'd,  and  rife 
With  impulses  of  love  and  life. 

But  can  it  be  with  one  so  vain, 
So  weak,  so  fearful  of  disdain  ? — 
"  It  can  be !  by  the  right  of  pain, 

"  And  curse,  and  cross,  and  this  dark  night ! 
Thou  shalt  endure  through  all  the  fight, 
And  as  thy  days  shall  be  thy  might. 

"  So  shalt  thou  bear  His  flag  unfurled, 

'Mid  ghostly  foemen  overhurl'd. 

In  fearless  love  before  the  world  !  " — 

Then,  blessed  Master !  only  Friend 
Be  near,  inspire,  sustain,  defend ; 
In  prayer  I  battle  till  the  end. 


Till  on  this  Lenten  night  forlorn 
There  breaks  the  final  Easter  morn, 
And  the  unsetting  sun  is  born, 

So  on  this  blessed  eventide, 

Here  at  Thy  tomb,  here  at  Thy  side, 

I  lift  one  prayer,  Abide,  abide ! 

The  old  sweet  prayer  so  earnestly 
Pray'd  one  sad  eve,  and  heard  of  Thee — 
Abide  with  me,  abide  with  me  ! 


'  As  thy  days,  so  shall  thy  strength  be."— Deut.  xxxiii.  25. 
'  Trust  ye  in  the  Lord  for  ever :  for  in  the  Lord  Jehovah  is 
everlasting  strength." — IsA.  xxvi.  4. 

O  FELLOW-CHRISTIAN  !  whosoe'cr  thou  art, 

This  is  for  thee  and  me — 
This  wine  of  Trust,  that  maketh  glad  the  heart 

In  its  adversity  : 
Drink,  therefore,  and  so  bear  a  braver  part ; 

For  as  thy  days,  thy  strength  shall  be. 

"Thy  days"  may  be  a  life-long  battle-field, 

A  warrior's  history, 
Where  every  weapon  Satan's  arm  can  wield 

Shall  each  be  aimed  at  thee  : 
But  strive  in  Trust,  and  thou  shalt  never  yield  ; 

For  as  thy  days,  thy  strength  shall  be. 

"  Thy  days  "  may  be  a  weary  pilgrimage 

Through  wastes  of  poverty  ; 
The  vulture's  hunger  and  the  lean  wolf's  rage 

Be  ever  threatening  thee  : 
Thy  childhood  joyless,  and  thy  youth  like  age; 

Yet  as  thy  days,  thy  strength  shall  be. 


"  Thy  days  "  may  be  a  voyage  full  of  fear 

Over  a  stormy  sea, 
And  thou  the  sleepless  helmsman  sworn  to  steer 

The  good  ship  warily — 
The  sharp  rocks  there — the  roaring  whirlpool  here- 

Yet  as  thy  days,  thy  strength  shall  be. 

*'  Thy  days  "  may  be  a  dull  and  vacant  range, 

A  long  captivity, 
Naught  brightly  wonderful  or  sweetly  strange 

To  quicken  time  for  thee  : 
Less  pain  or  more  the  only  interchange  ; 

Yet  as  thy  days,  thy  strength  shall  be. 

"  Thy  days  "  may  be  a  long  experience 

Of  much  perplexity  ; 
The  light  it  longs  for,  amid  clouds  so  dense, 

Thy  mind  may  scarcely  see  : 
Then  on  thy  Father  cast  thy  confidence ; 

And  as  thy  days,  thy  strength  shall  be. 

O  burdened  sufferer  in  a  world  of  woe. 

Thy  sorrow's  mystery 
Shall  pass  :  believe,  and  one  day  thou  shalt  know: 

Above  thine  eyes  shall  see. 
Be  not  impatient  of  the  veil  beloiv  ; 

And  as  thy  days,  thy  strength  shall  be. 

O  wakeful  toiler  in  a  world  of  pain, 
A  long  rest  waiteth  thee  : 


TRUST  113 

Seek  it  not  here,  but  bravely  lift  again 

Tired  hand  and  feeble  knee  : 
If  thou  wilt  trust,  thy  Master  will  sustain. 

And  as  thy  days,  thy  strength  shall  be. 

Yea,  fellow-Christian  !  whosoe'er  thou  art, 

It  is  for  thee  and  me, — 
This  wine  of  Trust,  that  maketh  glad  the  heart 

In  all  adversity : 
Drink,  therefore,  and  so  bear  a  braver  part ; 

For  as  thy  days,  thy  strength  shall  be. 

Amen  !  until  there  shall  be  no  more  "  days," 

Until  the  shadows  flee. 
Until  the  cloud  be  lifted  from  our  gaze. 

Until  in  Certainty 
Trust  die,  and  Faith  in  Sight,  and  Prayer  in  Praise, 

In  God's  Eternity  ! 


'«  He  stands  brightly  where  the  shade  is, 
With  the  keys  of  Death  and  Hades." 

E.  B.  Browning's  The  Fourfold  Aspect. 

Where  the  shade  is  stands  the  Lord— 

When  the  sun  of  youth  has  set, 

When  each  spell  is  fading  fast, 

And  the  dreamer  wakes  at  last, 

And  surprise  and  pain  have  met — 

Where  the  shade  is  stands  the  Lord. 

Where  the  shade  is  stands  the  Lord— 
When  again  and  yet  again 
Phantom  forms  of  fear  or  ill 
Crowd  against  the  tottering  will, 
And  the  struggle  seems  in  vain— 
Where  the  shade  is  stands  the  Lord. 

Where  the  shade  is  stands  the  Lord— 
When  within  the  broken  home 

All  life's  bread  seems  turned  to  stone  : 
Death  has  come  to  one  alone, 
To  the  other  will  not  come- 
Where  the  shade  is  stands  the  Lord. 

WHERE   THE   SHADE   IS  115 

Where  the  shade  is  stands  the  Lord — 
When  the  faint  or  fighting  breath, 
When  the  drooped  or  glazing  eye, 
Shows  the  gates  of  gloom  are  nigh, 
Opening  to  the  Vale  of  Death — 
Where  that  shade  is  stands  the  Lord. 

Where  the  shade  was  stood  the  Lord — 
Then  life's  light  won  by  Life's  loss — 
Light  that  burned  the  dark  away. 
Soft  and  sweet  and  strong  as  day — 
Streamed  from  His  all-conquering  Cross — 
Where  the  shade  was  stood  the  Lord. 

Where  our  shade  is,  stand,  O  Lord  ! 
Make  us  see  Thee  in  our  night. 

Hear  Thy  promise  through  the  gloom  : 
"  Lo,  I  have  the  keys  of  doom, 
O  My  children  of  the  light ! 
Where  your  shade  is  stands  your  Lord." 


"  Neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain." 

'Tis  peace  in  pain  to  know  that  Pain 

Secured  us  pain's  eternal  end ; 
And  that  the  more  exceeding  gain, 

To  which  by  grace  our  souls  ascend, 
My  great  Redeemer  won  for  me 
By  more  exceeding  agony. 

'Tis  true  my  pain  is  still  my  pain  : 

Heavy  its  hand  on  thought  and  prayer  1 

But  while  that  Love  to  me  is  plain 
It  lays  its  hand  upon  despair : 

And  soon  I  know  this  faint  "  How  long  ?  " 

For  me  may  quicken  into  song ; 

Beholding  Thee — in  what  repose. 
By  what  still  streams  of  Paradise  ! 

Beholding  memory  of  Thy  woes 
Still  in  those  deep  pathetic  Eyes  : 

Ah  me  !  what  blest  exchange  for  pain, 

If  I  attain,  if  I  attain  ! 



Am  I  too  soon  in  love  with  death  ? 

I  know  not  if  'tis  ill  or  well : 
If  ill,  then,  Master,  stay  this  breath, 

Deny  mine  ear  the  passing  bell ! 
One  thing  I  ask,  since  I  am  Thine, 
Thy  Will  be  done,  Thy  Will  be  mine. 

December  2"] th,  1899. 



(song  of  a  cavalier's  mother) 

He  died  the  beautiful  death, 

For  the  Church  and  the  King  : 
Shall  his  mother  shed  a  single  tear, 
While  yet  so  proudly  she  can  hear 

His  war-cry  ring — 
So  fiercely  strong,  so  sweetly  clear — 

"  For  Church  and  King  !  " 

He  died  the  beautiful  death, 

My  own  brave  boy  : 
And — break  though  it  may  in  its  desolate  ruth — 
Thy  mother's  heart  for  thy  loyal  truth 

Hath  passionate  joy  ! 
Dead  though  thou  art  in  thy  strength  and  youth. 

My  glorious  boy ! 

He  died  the  beautiful  death. 

Last  of  his  race  : 
I  saw  him  slain  from  the  castle  wall, 
The  last  and  the  dearest  one  left  to  recall 

His  father's  face : 
The  last  and  the  noblest  and  fairest  of  all 

Of  the  ancient  race. 



But  he  died  the  beautiful  death, 
For  the  Church  and  the  King  ! 

And  none  shall  see  me  shed  one  tear, 

While  yet  o'er  sorrow  my  soul  can  hear 
The  war-cry  ring — 

So  fiercely  strong,  so  sweetly  clear — 
"  For  Church  and  King  !  " 


"The  Sword  of  the  Spirit." 

"  For  an  Helmet,  the  Hope  of  Salvation." 

'God  forbid  that  I  should  glory  save  in  the  Cross." 

A  HELM  upon  my  brow  I  wear, 

I  wield  in  my  right  hand  a  Sword, 
A  Banner  with  device  I  bear — 
For  Christ  my  Lord. 

Armed  with  the  Spirit,  helmed  with  Hope, 
My  great  Cross  standard  wide  unfurled, 
I  fail  not,  fear  not,  though  I  cope 
With  all  the  world. 

I  battle  to  my  latest  breath, 

Then  not  my  joys  but  labours  cease. 
And  I  am  borne  to  life  through  death, 
Through  war  to  peace. 

The  guerdon,  then  !     O  hour  most  sweet, 

When  I  shall  kneel  for  my  reward 
Before  the  Face,  beside  the  Feet, 
Of  Christ  my  Lord  ! 



The  little  maid  lay  moaning, 

Late  at  the  set  of  sun  ; 
They  told  him  "  She  is  dying 

Now  that  the  day  is  done ! " 
But,  listening  by  the  window, 

He  heard  the  full-toned  roar 
Of  great  waves  plunging,  plunging, 

All  down  the  silent  shore. 
And  to  the  watchers  weeping 

"  She  cannot  go  !  "  he  cried, 
"  The  soul-call  never  cometh 

At  flowing  of  the  tide." 

The  little  maid  ceased  moaning, 

And  darker  grew  the  night ; 
They  cried,  "  She  is  not  dying. 

She'll  see  the  morning  light !  " 
But  he  heard  there  by  the  window 

The  plunging  waves  no  more, 
But  the  waters  washing,  washing, 

Like  a  lake  upon  the  shore. 
And  he  heeded  not  the  watchers. 

As  hopefully  they  cried. 
But  said  with  lips  all  trembling, 

"  It  is  the  Flood  of  tide." 

THE   EBB   OF  TIDE  125 

The  little  maid  lay  sleeping, 

Or  ere  the  night  was  done ; 
They  said,  "She  will  awaken 

To  new  life  with  the  sun  ! " 
But  he  listened  the  deep  murmur 

The  sighing  night-wind  bore 
Of  the  waters  sobbing,  sobbing. 

As  they  forsook  the  shore. 
"  Now  pray  the  Lord  Almighty 

Upon  your  knees,"  he  cried, 
"  Oh,  pray  Him  by  His  mercy. 

For  'tis  the  Ebb  of  tide  ! " 

Ah  me !  the  world  is  evil, 

And  sick  with  care  and  sin. 
And,  sure,  the  Lord  had  mercy, 

Who  left  her  not  therein  ; 
For  with  one  cry,  "  O  Father  !  " 

She  woke  ere  it  was  day. 
And  sighed  and  smiled ;  and,  sighing 

And  smiling,  passed  away. 
And,  sure,  in  life  more  blessed 

Her  sweet  soul  doth  abide. 
Where  on  the  Sea  of  Jasper 

Is  never  Ebb  of  tide. 


Gather  the  Harvest  in  : 
The  fields  are  white,  and  long  ago  ye  heard 
Ringing  across  the  world  the  Master's  word — 
Leave  not  such  fruitage  to  the  lord  of  Sin, 

Gather  the  Harvest  in. 

Gather  the  Harvest  in  : 
Souls  dying  and  yet  deathless,  o'er  the  lands, 
East,  West,  North,  South,  lie  ready  to  your  hands ; 
Long  since  that  other  did  his  work  begin ; 

Gather  the  Harvest  in. 

Gather  the  Harvest  in  : 
Rise  early  and  reap  late.     Is  this  a  time 
For  ease  ?     Shall  he,  by  every  curse  and  crime, 
Out  of  your  grasp  the  golden  treasure  win  ? 

Gather  the  Harvest  in. 

Gather  the  Harvest  in  : 
Ye  know  ye  live  not  to  yourselves,  nor  die, 
Then  let  not  this  bright  hour  of  work  go  by  : 
To  all  who  know,  and  do  not,  there  is  sin : 
Gather  the  Harvest  in. 


Gather  the  Harvest  in  : 
Soon  shall  the  mighty  Master  summon  home 
For  feast  His  reapers.     Think  ye  they  shall  come 
Whose  sickles  gleam  not,  and  whose  sheaves  are  thin? 

Gather  the  Harvest  in  ! 


My  God  hath  heard  me  :  I  am  His  : 
The  Lord  my  God  is  mine  : 

And  mine  are  His — in  Ishmael 
Is  bless'd  all  Ishmael's  line  : 

For  of  my  seed  for  multitude 
Be  yonder  stars  the  sign. 

Man's  foe  for  ever — there  shall  reign 
No  King  for  me  but  God  ! 

Mine  is  this  wild,  and  mine  shall  be, 
Sand-tract,  oasis-sod : 

Beneath  no  sceptre  shall  I  kneel 
Except  beneath  His  rod. 

He  will  ride  with  me  as  I  ride 
Great  Paran's  wastes  along. 

And  give  His  angel-winds  a  charge 
To  sing  His  Archer's  song  ^ 

Of  Ishmael  evermore  the  free 
And  evermore  the  strong  ! 

^  Gen.  xxi.  20. 



All  ends  of  earth,  times  of  all  time, 

As  here  the  blessed  well, 
As  Lahairoi,^  in  light  and  life. 

My  right  divine  shall  tell. 
For  He  the  Lord  my  God  is  true 

And  I  am  Ishmael !  ^ 

^  Beer-lahai-roi,  that  is,  "  the  well  of  him  that  liveth  and  seeth  me  " 
(Gen.  xvi.  14). 
2  Ishmael,  that  is,  "God  shall  hear." 



Sleep,  little  flower,  whose  petals  fade  and  fall 

Over  the  sunless  ground ; 
Ring  no  more  peals  of  perfume  on  the  air — 

Sleep  long  and  sound. 

Sleep — sleep. 

Sleep,  summer  wind,  whose  breathing  grows  more  faint 

As  night  draws  slowly  nigh  ; 
Cease  thy  sweet  chanting  in  the  cloistral  woods 

And  seem  to  die. 

Sleep — sleep. 

Sleep,  thou  great  Ocean,  whose  wild  waters  sink 

Under  the  setting  sun ; 
Hush  the  loud  music  of  thy  warring  waves 

Till  night  is  done. 

Sleep — sleep. 

Sleep,  thou  tired  heart,  whose  mountain  pulses  droop 

Within  the  valley  cold  : 
On  pains  and  pleasures,  fears  and  hopes  of  life, 
T^et  go  thine  hold. 

Sleep — sleep. 


Sleep,  for  'tis  only  sleep,  and  there  shall  be 

New  life  for  all,  at  day  ; 
So  sleep,  sleep  all,  until  the  restful  night 

Has  passed  away. 

Sleep — sleep. 


At  the  Well's  heart  serene  and  deep 

Sweet  waters  lie : 

But  from  their  sleep 
The  maid  will  stir  them  by  and  by. 

The  plunging  pail  their  peace  shall  break : 

And  at  the  sound 

They  shall  awake, 
Meeting  the  summons  with  a  bound  : 

Then  from  the  darkness  to  the  light 

Shall  be  new-born ; 

While  in  their  sight 
Is  spread  the  beauty  of  the  morn. 

Was  their  repose  a  blessed  thing  ? 

P'or  bliss  or  bane 

Shall  they  up-spring  ? 
Is  such  emotion  joy  or  pain  ? 

Deep  in  the  maiden's  heart  serene 

Sweet  waters  lie, 

Silent,  unseen — 
But  one  shall  stir  them  by  and  by  ! 

THE   MAIDEN   AT   THE   WELL        133 

Love,  that  has  lain  in  sleepy  night, 

Aroused  shall  sing 

And  leap  to  light, 
As  from  still  Winter  leaps  the  Spring. 

But  was  the  slumber  good  or  ill  ? 

Will  joy  or  pain 

The  future  fill  ? 
Is  such  new  knowledge  true  or  vain  ? 

True  be  the  knowledge  that  shall  crown 

Her  waiting  eyes ! 

Cast  her  not  down. 
Saying,  "  Tis  folly  to  be  wise  ! " 




Blow,  breeze,  from  the  north  and  the  west, 

Through  the  clear  afternoon ; 
To  all  that  gives  solitude  zest, 
To  the  zeal,  not  the  languor,  of  rest 

Our  tired  spirits  attune. 

Blow,  breeze,  in  the  deep  of  the  night. 

Solemn-sweet  in  our  ears, 
God's  organ  of  full-toned  delight. 
With  thine  ebbings  and  flowings  of  might. 

Charm  our  souls  from  their  fears. 

Blow  again,  potent  breeze,  with  the  morn, 

Till,  refreshed  with  thy  wine. 
Eyes  dim,  spirits  harassed  and  worn 
Looking  now  on  past  pains  with  sweet  scorn, 

May  arise  and  may  shine  ! 


ST.    COLUMB    OF    lONA 


Iona's  hills  are  lowly, 

Her  rocks  are  bleak  and  wild, 
Frowns  Mull  the  mighty  o'er  her 

As  at  a  changeling  child  ; 
O'er  the  dividing  waters 

She  sends  no  mother's  smile  : 
No  kin  the  granite  giant 

Owns  in  the  darker  isle. 

lona  sends  for  pleading 

No  suit  of  tender  grace  : 
No  fee  of  form  majestic, 

No  wile  of  winsome  face  : — 
No  forests  make  her  stately. 

No  rivers  make  her  fair, 
She  lieth  still  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

As  if  in  meek  despair. 

'■  Family  of  lona  :  the  community  of  the  island. 


Yet  hath  the  Lord  from  Heaven 

Looked  on  the  lowly  isle ; 
His  promise  shall  not  tarry, 

The  wilderness  shall  smile, 
And,  on  these  bleak  rocks,  beautiful 

Shall  be  their  feet  who  stand — 
The  heralds  of  that  Lord  of  Love 

Who  die  in  Holy  Land. 

But  long  years — half  a  thousand — 

Have  fled  in  weary  line, 
And  naught  hath  waked  the  silence, 

And  none  hath  seen  a  sign  ; 
By  feet  that  bring  no  blessing 

lona  still  is  trod  ; 
And  priests  unknown  of  Sion 

Worship  an  unknown  God.^ 

The  ocean  winds  that  sweep  her 

Breathe  sadness  still  in  tone, 
The  ocean  voice  rolls  round  her 

As  one  that  maketh  moan  ; 
For,  from  the  chosen  island, 

In  tempest  or  in  calm 
Rises  in  air,  for  praise  or  prayer. 

Nor  litany  nor  psalm. 

'  The  Druids  acknowledged  only  one  God. 

ST.   COLUMB   OF   lONA  137 

But  now  !  the  burden  changeth, 

Though  none  the  change  may  know, 
Save  those  who  joy  in  heaven 

For  blessing  wrought  below  ; 
The  mournful  burden  changeth, 

Like  weeping  into  song ; 
Like  those  who  cry,  "  He  cometh  ! " 

Who  wailed  before,  "  How  long  ?  " 

*Tis  on  a  silent  even, 

After  the  glare  of  day, 
A  frail  boat  to  lona 

Is  wending  peaceful  way  ; 
A  glow  is  on  the  waters, 

A  charm  is  in  the  air, 
And  the  blessing  Pentecostal  ^ 

Seems  falling  everywhere. 

Long  was  the  weary  waiting. 

The  desolate  day  was  long, 
But  peace  has  come  at  sunset. 

Like  praise  at  evensong  ! 
Cometh  lona's  promise. 

In  that  frail  boat  on  the  sea. 
As  of  old  the  Hope  of  a  world  forlorn. 
The  future  Church  and  her  Lord,  was  borne 

On  the  waves  of  Galilee  ! 

1  It  was  on  the  evening  before  Whitsunday  that  St.  Columba  arrived 
first  at  lona. 


A  saint  and  his  twelve  companions 

Are  all  the  waters  bear ; 
They  wave  no  warring  standard, 

No  battle-arms  they  bear  : 
Christ's  Cross  their  warrior  token  ; 

His  Word  the  sword  they  wield ; 
But  whose  are  brand  and  banner 

So  blest  on  foughten  field  ? 

St.  Columb's  name  is  noble, 

Of  kingly  line  is  he ; 
And  rich  broad  lands  and  vassal  bands 

Are  his  in  his  own  countrie. 
But  homage,  and  wealth,  and  sceptre, 

He  lays  right  gladly  down ; 
Who  counts  the  Cross  his  glory 

Recks  not  of  fleeting  crown  ! 

Priests  of  the  old  delusion, 

Fear  for  your  ancient  reign  ! 
A  mightier  than  the  Roman 

Here  cometh  o'er  the  main  : 
Soon  shall  the  Golden  Sickle 

Gleam  in  the  oak  no  more ; 
No  more  the  stones  of  the  cromlech 

Be  red  with  human  gore. 

ST.   COLUMB   OF   lONA  139 

The  charm  of  your  day  is  passing, 

A  new  strange  "  fire  of  God  "  ^ 
Shall  wither  the  worn-out  tokens, 

The  Amulet  and  the  Rod  : 
There  shall  rise  a  temple  stately 

For  every  shapeless  shrine, 
And  a  threefold  priestly  order 

Supplant  your  triple  line  !  ^ 

Now  be  she  named  Ishona  ! 

Now  call  her  Holy  Isle  !  ^ 
Now  may  the  winds  be  jocund, 

Now  may  the  waters  smile  ! 
For  proud  at  the  sacred  service 

They  render  the  freight  they  bore, 
As  the  saints  of  the  great  Redeemer 

Stand  on  the  chosen  shore. 

He  calls  his  Twelve  around  him, 

As  a  chieftain  calls  his  clan. 
For  zealous  deed  in  some  sore  need 

Exhorting  every  man  : 
"  Behold,"  he  saith,  "  the  darkness 

Deep  o'er  the  northern  land  ! 

'  The  great  Druidical  festival  took  place  in  May,  and  was  called  the 
Feast  of  the  "Fire  of  God,"  in  honour  of  the  sun. 

-  There  were  three  orders  or  grades  among  the  Druids :  the  Druids 
proper,  the  Bards,  and  the  Vates. 

^  The  Gaelic  Ishona  signifies  Holy  Island. 


And  ye,  the  Sons  of  Morning, 

To  shine  at  the  Lord's  command  ! 

Shine  ye  forth  at  His  bidding, 
O  new,  best  Hght  of  souls. 

Till  from  the  chosen  kingdom 
The  death-shade  backward  rolls  ! 

"  Far  are  ye  from  the  borders 

The  feet  of  Jesus  trod, 
Far  from  the  Holy  City, 

Far  from  the  Hill  of  God  : 
But  the  Pentecostal  Presence 

Is  brooding  everywhere, 
And  the  whole  earth  is  Sion, 

And  Jesus  reigneth  there  ! 
To  every  wind  of  heaven 

His  standard  is  outfurled. 
His  kingdom's  only  limit 

The  kingdoms  of  the  world  ! 

"  Scatter  the  ancient  shadows, 

Grace  of  the  mystic  Trine  ! 
O  Human  tender  pity, 

O  love  and  power  Divine  ! 
Gather  the  northern  peoples, 

Gather  them  near  and  far, 
To  follow  the  herald  promise 

Of  the  Western  morning  star."  ^ 

*  An  expression  applied  frequently  to  lona. 

ST.   COLUMB   OF   ION  A  141 

The  saint  fulfils  his  praying — 

Whose  life  is  as  his  prayer 
Shall  work  the  work  he  willeth, 

And  safely  do  and  dare  : 
The  Lord  God  is  his  keeper, 

And  His  strong  angels  stand 
To  watch  and  ward,  to  guide  and  guard 

Ever  on  either  hand. 

King  Brude  is  lord  of  Pictland  : 

Fierce  is  his  heart  and  hard. 
And  fast  against  the  stranger 

His  castle  gate  is  barred ; 
But,  as  the  gentle  sea-tide 

O'erflows  the  rugged  shore. 
Ere  long  the  saintly  spirit 

Winneth  the  proud  heart  o'er ! 

Fell  is  his  foemen's  malice, 

More  fell  the  Druid's  wile ; 
But  neither  threat  may  daunt  him. 

Nor  treachery  beguile. 
Through  pain,  and  toil,  and  vigil 

Ever  so  passeth  he. 
With  a  steadfast  heart  through  every  one. 
As  of  old  through  the  fire  in  Babylon 

Did  pass  the  holy  Three. 


As  after  hours  of  tempest, 

Or  ere  the  day  be  done, 
Pierces  the  rolling  cloud-rack 

The  great  orb  of  the  sun ; 
And  all  the  broken  heaven, 

And  the  waste  world  below, 
Is  bathed  with  his  tender  glory, 

A  deeper  golden  glow  ; — 

So  to  the  heathen  peoples, 

As  after  gloom  of  storm, 
With  light  of  the  great  evangel 

Stands  forth  St.  Columb's  form  : 
Outpouring  peace  on  hatred, 

And  closing  years  of  strife ; 
Like  a  visible  benediction 

Outbreathing  a  new  life. 

Behold  they  throng  around  him  ! 

Vassals,  and  chiefs,  and  kings ; 
From  the  poet-lips  ^  that  scorned  him 

His  fame  and  honour  rings. 
See  how  the  wild  barbarians 

Kneel  at  his  loving  word, 
And  come,  like  sheep  that  have  wandered, 

Back  to  the  Shepherd-lord  ! 

'  The  bards,  at  first  his  bitterest  foes,  ultimately  became  most  friendly 
and  sang  his  praises. 

ST.   COLUMB   OF  ION  A  i43 

Fear  is  in  his  rebuking, 

Strength  in  his  clear  command, 
But  Love  in  his  long  forbearing. 

And  Blessing  beneath  his  hand  : 
Tenderly  loosing  the  burden, 

Yet  crushing  the  pride  of  sin. 
He  bringeth  the  fierce  with  the  fearful, 

The  stern  with  the  gentle,  in  ! 

Conqueror,  true  and  noble  ! 

Not  now  the  wasted  lands. 
Not  now  the  riven  banner 

And  reeking  battle  brands  ! 
But  a  kingdom  torn  from  Satan, 

And  the  spoil  of  souls  unpriced. 
Won  painfully,  laid  humbly 

At  the  feet  of  the  Lord  Christ  ! 

Won  painfully — in  vigils. 

In  labours  night  and  day, 
Preparing  in  the  desert 

The  coming  King's  highway  : 
Laid  humbly— with  no  vaunting. 

But  meekly  as  by  one 
Counting  his  hands  not  worthy 

To  loose  the  Master's  shoon. 


See,  high  in  barren  places,      *' 

Springs  hallowed  house,  or  shrine — 
Of  unseen  spirit-blessing 

The  visible  fair  sign — 
And  winds,  that  breathed  the  rancour 

Of  human  hate  and  wrong, 
Bear  now  the  heavenly  incense 

Of  morn  and  even-song. 

Praise  to  the  Lord  of  harvest ! 

The  waste  land  is  a  field 
Wherein  the  sower's  labour 

A  hundredfold  doth  yield  : 
Seed  which  the  Spirit  wafteth 

Far  on  from  clime  to  clime, 
To  be  reaped  at  last  by  the  angels. 

At  blessed  Harvest-time. 

But  he  dies — the  saintly  sower — 

Lo,  'tis  the  Eve  of  Morn  :  ^ 
With  joyful  praise  he  seeth 

The  garnered  wealth  of  corn  ; 
"They  shall  not  lack,"  he  crieth, 

"  The  children  shall  be  blest. 
Though  the  long  Sabbath  calleth 

The  father  unto  rest !  " 

'  On  the  morning  of  Saturday,  the  day  before  he  died,  he  visited  the 
granary  of  the  monastery,  and  gave  thanks  for  the  provision  for  the 
sustenance  of  those  whom  he  was  about  to  leave. 

ST.   COLUMB   OF  ION  A  145 

Now  o'er  the  sacred  College 

On  the  Torr  Abb  he  stands, 
And  prophet-benediction 

Falls  from  his  lifted  hands  : 
"  Lo,  great  shall  be  thy  triumph 

O'er  evil  overhurled ! 
And  thou,  the  meek  and  poor,  be  found 
Chosen  and  precious,  when  thy  sound 

Is  heard  in  all  the  world." 

Now,  'tis  the  hour  of  vigil — 

The  father  in  his  cell 
Hears  on  the  air  the  call  for  prayer 

Ring  from  the  midnight  bell. 
Long  ere  the  monks  have  risen 

His  feet  have  passed  the  door, 
And  at  the  Altar  lowly 

He  kneeleth  on  the  floor. 

"Where  art  thou,  O  my  father?" 

One  crieth  through  the  gloom  :  ^ 
But  the  darkness  is  as  silent 

As  the  darkness  of  the  tomb. 
With  haste  they  bring  the  tapers. 

With  fear  they  gather  round  ; 
But  in  answer  to  their  crying 

Is  neither  sign  nor  sound. 

'  Dermid,  the  monk  who  was  his  continual  attendant. 


Then  gently  they  uplift  him, 

And  lo  ! — a  little  space — 
An  infinite  sweet  rapture 

Doth  lighten  in  his  face ; 
And  well  they  know  he  seeth 

The  heralds  of  Reward  ! 
The  guardians  of  the  blessbd, 

The  liegemen  of  the  Lord  ! 

Yet  once  he  turneth  on  them 

One  last  long  look  of  love ; 
One  moment,  for  last  blessing, 

They  raise  his  hand  above ; 
And  then  they  watch  him  wildly, 

And  then  they  turn  and  weep — 
The  soul  hath  passed  to  Eden, 

The  body  into  sleep. 

lona !  Holy  island  ! 

Isle  of  St.  Columb's  cell !  i 
The  very  names  thou  bearest 

Love  all  thy  children  well. 
Ringed  by  thy  rainbow  waters, 

Crowned  by  thy  peerless  skies. 
Where  change  on  change  unchanging 

For  ever  lives  and  dies  : 

'  Icolmkill  is  the  form  in  which  this  title  of  the  island  is  still  retained. 

ST.   COLUMB   OF   lONA  147 

To  us  thy  thought  is  dearer 

Than  of  all  lovely  lands, 
With  all  their  lordly  mountains, 

And  all  their  golden  sands. 

What  say  our  seers  ?  ^     Hereafter 

When  storm  shall  shake  the  world, 
And  in  one  vast  sea-ruin 

Nations  are  overhurled — 
When  Erin  lies  and  Islay 

'Neath  the  sepulchral  wave, 
And  of  the  hundred  islands 

Each  finds  its  own  sea-grave ; — 
Then,  as  on  rolling  billows 

When  the  tornadoes  die. 
Rocks  the  great  Solan  calmly 

Where  buried  navies  lie  : 
So  riding,  as  God's  token. 

Over  the  waters  dark. 
Our  Columb's  own  lona 

Shall  be  God's  second  Ark. 

Where'er  our  steps  may  wander 

In  far-off  ways  of  toil, 
In  longing  sweet  remembrance 

We  tread  thy  sacred  soil : 

*  These  sixteen  lines  are  an  amplification  of  some  Gaelic  lines  quoted 
in  Dr.  Gordon's  lona. 


And  when  the  toil  is  over 

Fain  would  we  fall  on  sleep, 
Where  o'er  thy  first  great  Abbot 

Thine  ocean  breezes  sweep ; 
So  when  the  Angel-trumpet 

Heralds  the  Easter-tide, 
We  may  behold,  as  the  mighty  sound 
Wakens  the  blessed  sleepers  round, 

Saint  Columb  at  our  side  ! 


Rock  and  roar, 
Wind  and  wave,  of  a  west-rolling  sea. 

Of  a  sunset  of  sea  : 
The  deep  slope  of  a  diamond  shore, 

A  mosaic  of  shore  : 
And  a  moss-hidden  skeleton  lea, 

Lying  inward  afar 
From  sea-gates  of  precipitous  scaur  : — 
Like  their  spell  was  none  other  to  me, 

Is  none  other  to  me  ! 

Face  and  form, 
Port  and  power,  of  a  ruler  of  men 

Of  a  Saul  among  men  : 
Voice  like  song  at  the  heart  of  a  storm, 

A  deep  organ  of  storm  : 
Kingly  eye  as  an  eagle's  in  ken, 

^  Port-na-Churaich  (the  "Haven  of  the  Coracle")  is  at  the  south- 
west end  of  the  island.  Here  St.  Columba  landed  with  his  twelve 
followers  on  the  eve  of  Whitsunday,  May  12,  A.D.  563,  and  having 
ascended  to  the  point  near  it,  now  called  "Cairn  cul  ri  Erin"  (or 
"Cairn  of  Farewell  to  Ireland"),  and  seeing  that  his  native  land  was 
not  visible,  as  it  had  been  from  Colonsay,  the  island  on  which  he  first 
landed,  he  decided  to  make  lona  the  cradle  of  his  Mission.  It  is  in 
this  bay  that  the  brilliantly-coloured  stones,  white  and  porphyry-coloured 
and,  most  beautiful  of  all,  translucent  green  serpentine  and  the  reddest 

felspar,  are  found. 



Yet  an  angel  might  own 
Looking  love  by  the  steps  of  the  Throne ; 
Their  old  glamour  is  now  as  was  then  : 

Even  now  as  was  then  ! 

Long  ago  ? 
And  ye  hear  but  the  roll  of  the  wind, 

Of  the  wave  and  the  wind, 
But  the  ebb,  or  the  plunge  of  the  flow. 

Sough  of  ebb,  thunder-flow  ? 
And  ye  see  not  these  wraiths  of  the  mind  ? 

And  that  old  Pentecost 
Is  a  thing  of  the  Far-away  lost  ? 
And  I  sing  to  the  deaf  and  the  blind, 

Spirit-deaf,  spirit-blind  ? 

Ah,  no,  no  ! 
By  the  winds  would  a  challenge  be  hurled, 

From  the  West  ^  would  be  hurled ; 
By  the  seas,  by  their  many-hued  Bow, 

By  their  opaline  Bow — 
That  the  Banner  of  Love  is  unfurled 

Over  space  without  bound  : 
That  this  glamour  of  vision  and  sound 
Has  won  through  the  gates  of  the  world, 

Of  yon  world  and  your  world  ! 

'  The  expanse  of  sea  westward  from  Port-na-Churaich  is  unbroken 
to  that  New  World  where  the  Episcopal  Succession  was  first  received 
through  the  Catholic  Church  of  Scotland. 


A    SONG 

A  TENDER  mist  of  amber  lawn, 
Aurora's  vesture  ere  the  dawn, 
A  robe  already  half-withdrawn 

O'erhung  the  heaving  bay  ; 
Just  might  be  seen  beneath  its  pall 
Her  bosom's  restful  rise  and  fall : 
Just  heard  from  far  the  breezy  call 

That  summoned  up  the  day. 

The  amber  deepened  into  gold  : 
Then  softly,  slowly,  fold  by  fold. 
The  lingering  robe  away  she  rolled  : 

Then,  smiling  sleep  to  scorn, 
To  sound  of  wings  the  waste  along 
That  woke  the  ripples  into  song, 
A  goddess,  beautiful  and  strong. 

Up  leapt  the  living  Morn  ! 




"All  things  pass  away  but  the  Love  of  God.  Suffice  it  then  to  say 
that  he  loved  and  feared  God  above  all  things." — From  The  Character 
of  Bayard,  by  his  "  Loyal  Serviteur." 

In  ancient  days,  so  saith  an  old  Romaunt, 
There  lived  a  knight,  brave,  rich,  and  nobly  born, 
Withal  pure-hearted  as  a  saint,  whose  love 
His  ladye  spurned ;  not  that  she  loved  him  not. 
Although  she  said  so,  but  because  she  saw 
He  put  God  higher  than  all  human  claims 
Of  love  and  reverence.     So  she  bade  him  go, 
And  spurned  him  for  a  wicked  pride  :  and  he, 
Not  caring  any  more  to  dwell  with  men 
In  open  converse,  left  his  ancient  halls 
And  things  of  wealth  and  state,  which  men  hold  dear. 
And  rode  through  many  lands  for  many  a  day, 
Doing  true  devoir  as  a  noble  knight. 
None  knew  him,  for  he  lived  with  visor  down ; 
His  harness  of  plain  steel  revealed  no  sign 
Of  rank  or  name  ;  nor  bore  he  in  his  helm 
Token  or  favour  ;  only  on  his  shield 
A  dark  cross,  as  of  mourning.     On  he  rode ; 
And  ever  as  he  wrought  a  gallant  deed. 
And  man  or  maiden  asked  him,  "  How  may  I 



Repay  thy  service  ?  "  never  aught  said  he 

Save,  "  Pray  for  Her !  "  and  parted,  still  in  quest 

Of  fresh  occasion,  and  for  guerdon  still 

Took  nothing ;  only  came  the  self-same  voice 

From  the  closed  helm  in  answer  :  "  Pray  for  Her ! " 

And  so  the  captive  freed  did  pray  for  Her ; 
The  rescued  maiden  prayed ;  the  widow  prayed, 
With  all  her  wrongs  avenged ;  the  poor  and  rich, 
Each  for  the  service  they  received  from  him, 
Did  pray  for  Her.     The  little  children  lost 
In  the  wild  wood,  and  found  by  him,  and  saved 
From  wolf  or  robber,  lifting  trustful  eyes 
Prayed  also :  and  the  angels  went  and  came. 
Bearing  those  prayers,  and  bringing  blessings  down. 
And  so  she  prospered  much  in  all  her  pride. 

The  days  passed  on ;  and  on  the  warrior  rode — 
The  Knight  of  Intercession  :  and  his  deeds 
Made  the  plain  harness  famous  in  the  lands ; 
And  neither  ceased  those  grateful  hearts  to  pray, 
Nor  she  to  prosper. 

Came  a  day  at  last, 
Whereon  a  certain  prince,  with  all  his  host, 
Did  battle  for  his  kingdom  ;  and  the  foe 
Had  well-nigh  driven  back  his  last  essay. 
And  won  the  city.     Mothers,  sisters,  wives, 
Wringing  their  frantic  hands  upon  the  towers. 
Wept  for  the  coming  issue,  death  or  shame. 
Then  on  a  sudden  rode  into  the  fray 
The  nameless  knight :  the  foremost  foe  drew  back 
Before  his  onset ;  then  with  terrible  blows 


He  clave  a  bloody  pathway  to  their  chief, 

And  bore  him  down,  and  slew  him,  and  pressed  on 

To  win  the  standard.     So  the  battle  changed ; 

The  prince  and  all  his  warriors  took  fresh  heart, 

And  drove  their  foemen  backward  toward  the  sea. 

And  overthrew  them.     When  the  fight  was  done, 

The  prince  with  all  his  nobles  came  to  thank 

The  saviour  of  his  kingdom.     But  he  lay 

Wounded  upon  the  standard  he  had  won ; 

A  lance  was  in  his  breast,  and  through  the  helm 

He  was  sore  smitten ;  and  at  last  was  seen 

Through  the  raised  visor  the  long-hidden  face, 

Sad,  pale,  and  noble.     Then  the  prince  burst  forth  : 

"  Sir  Knight,  what  guerdon  wilt  thou  for  thine  aid  ? 

Certes,  whatever  thou  shalt  ask  is  thine, 

E'en  to  the  one  half  of  my  realm  ! "     And  so 

The  nobles  prayed  him ;  and  their  ladies  came 

And  wept  their  thanks ;  and  all  in  that  great  town — 

The  rich  and  poor,  the  old  and  young — came  there, 

Beseeching  him  with  tears  of  joy,  that  he 

Would  name  some  guerdon.     And  the  knight  looked 

round ; 
O'er  his  pale  visage  moved  a  moment's  smile — 
Like  the  last  tinge  of  sunset  on  a  height — 
Tender  and  holy,  moving  men  to  tears ; 
And  smiling  thus,  he  murmured,  "  Pray  for  Her  ! " 
Then  with  closed  eyes  he  lay  a  little  space, 
And  the  pale  face  grew  paler,  and  his  head 
Grew  heavier  on  the  knees  of  him  whose  hands 
Had  caught  him  falling.     Yet  once  more  the  eyes 


\Vere  opened,  and  the  noble  head  was  raised, 
And  once  more,  while  his  upward  wistful  gaze 
Sought  the  far  heav'n,  he  murmured,  "  Pray  for  Her  !  " 
And  in  the  look  and  in  the  prayer  he  died. 
And  in  that  kingdom  never  passed  a  day, 
But  prince,  knights,  nobles,  ladies,  young  and  old, 
And  rich  and  poor,  at  morn  and  evensong. 
Did  evermore  henceforward  pray  for  Her. 

Ere  long  there  came  unto  the  ladye's  bower 
A  nameless  messenger.     "  I  come,"  said  he, 
"  Ladye,  I  come  from  one  who  loved  thee  well. 
And  whom  thou  lovest !  "     Then  the  ladye  flushed. 
And  but  he  said  "who  loved"  and  not  "who  loves," 
And  so  awoke  a  terror  in  her  breast. 
Which  still  was  mindful  of  the  love  it  spurned. 
She  would  have  straight  dismissed  him.  Still  she  feigned. 
And  dallying  with  her  fear  she  answered  him 
Lightly  and  falsely  :  "  Comest  thou  from  him, 
The  stately  earl  of  yonder  proud  domain, 
Who  bids  me  make  him  and  his  fair  broad  lands 
Mine  own  ?  "     He  answered  sternly,  "  Not  from  him ; 
His  heart  is  narrow,  though  his  lands  are  broad  ! " 
"  Perchance  thou  comest  from  the  courtly  knight 
Who  wears  my  glove  for  crest,  my  woven  scarf 
Across  his  gilded  harness  ?  "     "  Not  from  him  ; 
His  sword  is  rusty,  though  he  rides  in  gold  !  " 
"  Thou  comest  then,  I  wot,  from  him  who  rules 
In  yonder  city,  treads  his  palace  floors, 


And  sighs  for  me  ?  "     He  answered,  "  Not  from  him ; 
His  name  is  noble,  but  his  soul  is  mean ! " 

So  thrice  she  questioned,  hovering  round  her  fear, 
As  one  who  stays  and  lingers  at  a  door 
Wistful,  yet  dreads  to  enter.     So  she  paused  : 
Then  with  changed  voice  demanded,  "Comest  thou — ?" 
But  here  she  sickened,  for  she  felt  his  eyes 
Looked  sadly  on  her,  seeing  through  her  soul. 
Right  to  the  inner  trouble,  undeceived 
By  outward  seeming.    Then  she  summoned  strength, 
And  asked  in  accents  tremulous  and  low, 
Which  grew  in  force  and  passion — as  a  stone. 
Loosed  from  a  hill-side,  rolls  towards  the  vale. 
Slowly  at  first,  but  gathering  power  and  speed 
Falls  wildly—"  Comest  thou  from  him,  my  knight. 
Nameless  but  famous,  unknown  but  renowned. 
In  plain  steel  armour,  with  his  visor  down, 
Yet  winning  noblest  praise  in  all  the  lands  ; 
Who  knew  not  that  I  loved  him  even  then 
When  I  was  scornfuUest,  whom  yet  I  love, 
Whom  I  love  on  for  ever  ?     If  from  him 
Thou  comest,  get  thee  back  and  tell  him  all ! 
Go  tell  him  I  repent  me  of  my  pride ; 
Tell  him  I  wait  for  him,  and  spend  my  heart 
In  waiting ;  tell  him  that  I  never  loved 
And  never  shall  love  other  till  I  die  ! 
Speak  !  comest  thou  from  him  ?  " 

He  said,  "  From  him." 
And  more  the  trembling  passion  of  her  frame. 
The  close-clasped  hands,  the  cheek  now  red,  now  pale, 


And  more  the  pleading  hunger  of  her  eyes, 
Than  her  quick  asking,  moved  him  to  reply 
Softly,  and  not  in  wrath,  "  I  come  from  him, 
Ladye — from  him  who  cannot  come  to  thee ; 
For  now  that  visor  closed  is  closed  no  more, 
For  men  have  looked  beneath  it ;  and  he  sleeps 
In  that  plain  harness,  never  more  to  rise 
Till  God  shall  wake  him.     In  a  prayer  he  died, 
That  all  he  saved  and  served  should  pray  for  thee. 
So  until  death,  at  morn  and  evensong, 
True  hearts  and  hands  are  lifted  up  for  thee. 
That  all  things  of  the  earth,  and  all  of  heaven, 
In  all  thy  goings  out  and  comings  in. 
May  bless  thee  always,  even  to  the  end. 
Farewell !  so  pray  a  thousand  hearts  for  thee ; 
So  shall  I  pray  for  ever  unto  death  : 
Farewell !  " 

She  heard  him  speechless  to  the  close, 
And  speechless  still  she  saw  him  pass  away  : 
"  Death,"  and  "  Farewell,"  the  last  words  on  his  lips. 
And  in  her  ears.     Oh,  how  they  rose  and  fell 
Alternate,  like  a  cadence  of  despair  ! 
Death  and  Farewell !     Farewell  and  Death  !  in  each 
A  hopeless  issue,  speaking  not  of  him 
Who  said  them,  but  of  him  from  whom  he  came — 
Her  own  true  knight,  her  noble,  peerless  knight : 
Death  and  Farewell !  and  then  it  seemed  to  her 
As  though  she  too  must  die. 

Her  maidens  came 
And  found  her  swooning. 


But  she  did  not  die  : 
She  woke  again  to  hate  the  thought  of  Ufe, 
Yet  fearing  death.     She  stood  as  one  might  stand, 
A  pilgrim  for  whose  steps  is  no  return, 
With  choice  for  two  ways  :  one  across  a  wild 
Gloomy  and  drear,  the  other  through  a  vale 
With  unknown  terrors  lurking  in  its  depths, 
More  drear  because  unknown.     E'en  so  she  looked 
On  life  and  death  :  the  one  a  darkened  path, 
Reft  of  the  sun  which  might  have  shone  on  her ; 
So  darkened  now,  that  ever  and  anon 
Stretching  her  hopeless  hands  out  in  the  dark 
Towards  that  other,  "  Oh,  that  I  might  die  !  " 
She  cried — still  conscious  that  she  dared  not  die. 

Then  was  it  well  for  her  that  late  and  soon, 
Frqm  great  and  noble,  from  the  small  and  mean — 
The  sad  and  needy,  and  the  rich  and  glad — 
From  little  children  and  hoar-headed  men — 
The  voice  of  intercession  ever  rose, 
Like  incense,  unto  Him  "  Who  heareth  prayer." 
For  even  while  He  smote  her  with  a  sense 
Of  hopelessness  and  anguish — even  then 
He  wrought  within  her  unto  final  good. 
Crushing  her  pride,  He  bade  her  stoop  and  raise 
That  Cross  she  had  refused  of  lowly  fear. 
And  love  unselfish. 

Then  He  gave  her  peace — 
Because  her  heart  had  learned  to  rest  on  Him — 
His  perfect  peace  :  and  with  rejoicing  flight, 
The  great  good  angels  of  a  thousand  prayers — 



The  prayers  still  rising  morn  and  eve  for  her — 
Sped  downwards  at  commandment  of  their  King, 
And  tended  her  with  constant  service ;  filled 
Her  mind  with  holy  thoughts  and  pure  desires 
And  glorious  hopes.     And  so  it  was  that  she, 
Who  looked  on  life  and  death  with  hate  and  fear, 
Saw  in  her  life  a  happy  pilgrimage 
On  toward  a  better  country,  which  she  sought 
With  longing ;  and  in  death  that  blessed  stream, 
Ordained  to  bear  the  children  of  the  Lord 
Beyond  the  shadowy  twilight  of  this  world, 
Into  the  glory  of  the  perfect  day. 


"Who  is  the  greatest  in  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven ? " 

A  SIMPLE  cross,  let  in  the  outer  wall 
Under  the  chancel  window,  and  beneath 
A  little  slab,  of  marble  also,  graved 
With  these  two  words,  spelt  anciently,  deare  childe. 
These  and  no  more,  and  yet  he  lingered  here ; 
He  who  had  wandered  with  me,  and  had  scanned. 
With  heedless  eyes  that  cared  to  rest  on  none. 
The  carven  annals  on  a  score  of  tombs. 
He  who  had  laughed  at  this,  and  sneered  at  that. 
Nor  gave  elsewhere  a  reverent  word  for  one, 
Yet  lingered  here,  and  lingered  on,  until 
I  moved  away  to  test  him ;  still  he  stayed 
And  kept  his  eyes  upon  the  simple  cross 
And  those  two  words  ;  and  when  I  spoke  to  him 
He  moved  not.     Coming  back  and  touching  him, 
I  said,  "  What  keeps  you  ?  "     As  he  turned,  I  saw 
The  face  was  wholly  changed,  the  open  brow 
Thrid  as  with  pain  or  thought,  the  careless  eyes 
Filmed  with  a  mist  of  tears,  and  the  strong  lips 



Set  closer,  as  prepared  against  a  sense 

Of  quivering  weakness.     Facing  round  again 

Upon  the  little  monument,  he  said, 

"  Tell  me  of  him,  or  her."     I  thereupon. 

In  sudden  memory  of  a  bygone  day 

And  a  great  loss  which  dimmed  his  life  awhile. 

Knew  why  the  simple  words  on  one  unknown 

Had  power  to  move  him  by  the  touch  of  that 

Which, says  the  great  bard,  "makes  the  whole  world  kin." 

So  without  word  of  wonder  I  replied  : 

"Of  her,  who  underneath  the  holy  sign 

Sleeps  there,  the  record  is  but  that  of  all 

Who  die  ere  yet  the  pure  baptismal  robe 

Is  soiled,  or  stained,  or  torn  in  this  bad  world. 

Yet  there  are  words  of  hers  I  know  and  keep. 

Said  in  her  last  hours,  little  childish  words. 

Yet  all  divine  in  their  simplicity, 

Pure  gold,  with  no  touch  of  the  base  alloy 

That  mars  all  earthly  treasure ;  you  shall  hear : 

I  am  no  miser  though  it  is  pure  gold ; 

Share  it,  it  shall  enrich  your  soul  as  mine. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  shepherd  here. 

And  born  hard  by,  there,  where  you  see  the  smoke 

Rise  from  the  cottage  underneath  the  eaves 

Of  that  grove-covered  hill.     He  who  begot 

And  she  who  bare  her  were  and  are  to  me. 

Of  all  the  flock  on  whom  I  tend  for  God, 

Worthiest  of  love  and  honour  :  poor  in  truth. 

Save  in  that  wealth  which  passeth  not  away ; 

Humble,  save  in  that  greatness  which  alone 


Is  lord  of  death ;  not  known  within  the  world, 

But  written  amid  God's  chosen  saints ;  and  she, 

This  quiet  sleeper,  was  their  only  child. 

Seven  years,  that  fled  like  Eden  hours,  was  she 

The  sunshine  and  the  music  of  their  home. 

Such  blessed  sunshine  !  in  the  holy  blue 

Of  innocent  eyes,  in  the  fair,  guileless  face, 

And  myriad  glimmers  of  her  golden  hair  : 

Such  music !  in  the  run  of  little  feet 

That  beat  the  merry  pulse  of  laughing  hours, 

And  in  the  loving  prattle  of  the  lips 

That  framed  the  simple  tale  of  daily  needs. 

Of  daily  hopes  and  pleasures,  aims  and  ends. 

So  sweetly,  or  that  spake  on  holy  themes 

With  all  the  intuition  marvellous, 

The  fearless,  reverent  confidence  of  those 

Whose  angels  see  the  Father's  face  in  Heaven. 

Ah  me  !  perchance  that  sunshine  was  too  bright 

For  this  all-darkening  world,  too  sweet  perchance 

That  music  for  the  jarring  dissonance 

Of  sin  and  sorrow.     He  who  loved  her  best 

Did  what  was  best,  and  we  that  wept  His  will 

Yet  praise  Him  ;  praise  Him  for  the  treasure  lent, 

For  that  sweet  angel-visit  which  unawares 

We  entertained ;  for  that  deep  memory 

Which  makes  the  past  of  those  seven  winged  years 

An  Eden  of  remembrance ;  more  than  all 

We  now  have  learned  to  praise  Him  that  again 

Into  His  blessed  keeping,  undefiled, 

He  took  her  back,  to  meet  us  at  '  that  day.' 


You  wonder  at  my  speech  of  '  us '  and  '  we,' 

As  though  she  had  two  fathers.     She  had  two — 

Him  the  true,  faithful  man  of  whom  I  spake, 

The  shepherd  of  the  flocks  on  yonder  wold, 

And  me,  the  pastor  of  the  sheep  of  God 

Folded  within  this  vale  and  on  those  hills ; 

His  child  according  to  the  flesh,  and  mine 

According  to  the  Spirit — mine  the  arms 

In  which  she  died  to  sin  and  lived  to  God ; 

Mine  the  priest's  hand  that  traced  upon  her  brow 

The  token  of  her  new  inheritance, 

Yon  sacred  sign ;  mine,  too,  the  lips  that  sware 

Her  vows  of  fealty.     And  from  that  hour. 

As  by  an  instinct,  I,  who  had  no  child, 

Gave  all  the  father's  heart  within  my  breast 

To  her,  and  she  to  me  a  daughter's  love  ; 

Such  love  as  to  the  others  of  her  home. 

And  reverence  withal  as  unto  one 

Nearest,  she  held  it,  unto  God  and  Heaven, 

Which  coming  all  so  full  from  one  so  pure. 

Not  seldom  smote  and  pricked  a  heart  that  knew 

Its  own  defilement. 

"  So  it  was,  that  when 
God's  message  came  that  we  must  render  up 
The  treasure  lent  awhile,  to  me  they  gave — 
In  the  wild  grief  that  shook  them  more  than  mine, 
Marking  the  severance  of  the  fleshly  bond — 
The  task  to  tell  her  that  the  end  was  nigh. 
I  went  alone  into  the  little  room. 
And  using  the  familiar  name  she  knew, 


'  Dear  child,'  I  said,  '  God  wants  you  very  soon 
To  go  to  Him.     He  has  a  better  home 
Above,  you  know,  with  angels  in  His  Heaven, 
Where  there  is  perfect  peace  and  no  more  pain.' 
'  Oh,  that  is  good,'  she  answered,  '  no  more  pain ! 
It  hurts  me  so,  and  mother  cries  to  see  it ; 
But,  sir,  will  she  come  there,  and  father  too, 
And  you  ? ' 

"  I  answered,  '  But  a  little  while 
And  we  will  come ;  God  has  not  sent  for  us. 
He  calls  you  first,  soon  He  will  send  for  us, 
And  we  will  come,  and  you  will  meet  us  there, 
And  we  shall  never  part,  nor  grieve,  nor  die.' 
"  '  Am  I  to  die,  sir  ? '  tremulously  she  said  ; 
And  when  I  could  not  speak  for  sudden  tears, 
Went  on,  '  Oh,  now  I  know  I  am  to  die. 
Like  little  Alice  at  the  farm  last  year, 
Who  used  to  gather  flowers  and  play  with  me ; 
But  she  fell  ill,  and  angels  came  from  God 
And  took  her  up,  you  said,  beyond  the  stars. 
But  oh  !  they  cried  so  when  she  went  away  ! 
Will  mother  cry,  and  father  if  I  go, 
And  you,  sir  ?     Oh,  'tis  sad  for  you  to  cry  ! 
May  I  not  stay  awhile  ? ' 

"  I  answered  her, 
*  Your  father,  mother,  and  I  love  you,  dear ; 
You  know  it ! ' 

'  Oh,  I  love  you  so  ! '  she  said. 
'  But  there  is  One  who  loves  you  more  than  all : 
IV/io  loves  you  best  ?  '  I  asked  her.     Then  a  smile 


Childlike  and  holy,  as  I  never  saw 

On  other  lips,  so  human  and  divine, 

Flowed  over  all  the  tender  little  face, 

And  broke  in  utterance,  'Jesus  loves  me  best, 

Jesus,  Who  died  upon  the  cross  for  me  ! ' 

"  And  much  it  moved  me,  watching  her,  to  see 
How  the  sweet  head  before  the  Holy  Name, 
Despite  the  languor  of  its  feebleness. 
Essayed  the  wonted  reverence  where  it  lay. 
"Tis  Jksus,'  I  replied,  'Who  loves  you  best, 
That  calls  you.     Will  you  wait  awhile,  or  go 
Now  when  He  calls  you  ?  ' 

'  Now,  oh  now,'  she  said. 
And  smiled  again,  and  clasped  her  little  hands ; 
'  And  I  shall  see  His  face,  and  hear  His  voice. 
And  He  will  come  and  take  me  in  His  arms 
And  say  your  words,  "  dear  child,"  and  bid  me  rest, 
Making  me  love  Him  ever  more  and  more. 
And  I  shall  wait  for  you,  and  you  will  come, 
And  mother  dear,  and  father  when  He  sends. 
And  He  will  make  us  glad  and  good  for  ever.' 

"  That  noon — for  it  was  morning  when  I  spoke — 
There  came  upon  her  bitter  throes  of  pain ; 
But  naught  save  sudden  spasms  of  the  brow, 
And  the  shook  lips  and  quicker  breath  betrayed 
The  tribulation  of  the  passing  life. 
No  wailing  or  complaint  to  vex  our  ears. 
But  ever  and  anon  we  heard  her  say, 


In  whispers  softly,  'There  is  no  more  pain'; 
Or  she  would  murmur,  'Jesus  loves  me  best,' 
And  then  again  would  whisper,  '  No  more  pain.' 

"  But  when  the  sun  was  low  at  eventide, 
The  bitter  pain  had  passed,  and  she  lay  still, 
Too  weak  for  words,  but  smiling  peacefully 
With  eyes  that  looked  upon  us  with  such  love, 
Our  hearts  in  battle  with  the  struggling  tears 
Were  nigh  to  bursting.     Then  we  knelt  and  prayed, 
And  as  we  rose  the  parting  sunlight  streamed 
With  its  last  glory  through  the  window  panes. 
And  o'er  the  dying  child.     She  could  not  speak, 
But  first  at  us,  and  after  toward  the  west, 
Looked  wistfully.     And  then  the  mother  said 
Divining,  '  She  would  have  you  sing  the  hymn 
You  taught  her  for  the  sunset  every  day.' 

"  And  so  we  sang  the  hymn  of  eventide, 
'  Abide  with  me  ';  and  while  we  sang,  her  soul 
Sang  with  us  in  that  marvellous  sweet  smile. 
That  was  like  music  too  divine  for  sound. 
We  sang  and  darkness  deepened,  but  that  smile 
Grew  brighter  yet,  and  brighter,  till  the  close, 
'  In  life,  in  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me  ! ' 
Then,  with  '  Amen,'  was  breathed  one  little  sigh, 
And  song,  and  smile,  and  soul  fied  up  to  heaven. 

"  Deare  Childe !  I  think  that  we  thus  are  more  blest 
Than  by  thy  life — we  are  more  near  to  God  : 
That  holy  sleep  in  Jesus  which  thou  sleepest 
Has  power  to  lull  us  also  into  dreams 
More  bright  of  waters  still  and  pastures  green, 


Where  thou  art  waiting  till  He  bid  us  come  : 
He,  the  Good  Shepherd,  Who  doth  feed  His  flock, 
Gather  the  Httle  lambs  within  His  arm, 
And  gently  lead  the  heavy  laden  home." 



"  So  ere  that  day  and  hour  begun 
In  which  Thyself  will  be  the  sun  ; 
Thou'lt  find  me  drest,  and  on  my  way, 
Watching  the  break  of  Thy  Great  Day." 

H.  Vaughan,  The  Dawning. 

"  Until  the  day  dawn." 

There  stands  a  little  cottage  near  the  wood 
That  lies  one  side  the  village  church,  and  crowns 
The  long  but  gentle  slope  above  the  vale. 
Wide  on  the  left,  descending  from  the  wood, 
Fringed  with  a  low  grey  wall  of  ancient  stone, 
A  grassy  park  extends,  with,  here  and  there. 
Great  trees,  alone  or  clustered,  till  it  joins 
The  hamlet  and  the  river. 

Many  years 
A  pensioner  of  the  hall,  an  old  man,  lived 
Alone  in  the  lone  cottage.     Dear  to  him 
Its  narrow  walls  and  weather-beaten  thatch. 
And  windows  quaint  and  dim.     There  he  was  born ; 
There  had  his  mother  loved  him ;  there  she  died, 



Her  hand  in  his ;  there  had  his  father  prayed 
His  latest  prayer  of  blessing  on  his  head ; 
There,  one  fair  summer  morning,  he  had  brought 
From  the  near  church,  his  pretty  sweetheart  home ; 
There  she  had  loved  him  well  a  happy  year ; 
There,  with  her  little  babe,  he  saw  her  die. 

Awhile  the  old  dear  home  seemed  changed  to  him, 
Desolate  and  unlovely,  but  ere  long 
The  sense  of  darkness  and  of  loneliness 
Left  it,  for  it  was  peopled  from  the  Past, 
And  brightened  with  the  Future.     There  he  saw, 
As  with  shut  eyes  he  sat  beside  his  hearth. 
The  old  familiar  faces  come  and  go, 
And  heard  their  voices  at  his  will ;  and  there. 
Far  better  thus  alone,  in  simple  prayer 
And  study  of  the  Holy  Word,  he  held 
Communion  with  those  dear  saints  gone  before. 
Not  lost — and  in  that  quiet  commune  drew 
His  vision  of  the  glory  that  should  be. 

But  when  his  years  were  many,  and  his  limbs 
Failed  at  their  wonted  toil,  the  good  old  squire — 
Knowing  himself  the  weight  of  many  years — 
Gave  him  the  cottage  for  his  life,  and  all 
The  little  needs  his  thrift  could  not  supply. 
Supplied  with  willing  hand. 

But  though  his  limbs 
Were  feeble,  yet  his  heart  had  kept  its  youth, 
And  something  of  its  childhood  :  in  his  eyes 
It  shone  so  bright,  and  over  all  his  face — 
Despite  the  wintry  pallor  of  his  age, 


And  the  deep  wrinkles  which  the  tide  of  life, 
Receding,  had  left  marked  on  cheek  and  brow — 
Glowed  yet  so  fresh  and  cheerly,  it  belied 
His  fourscore  years.     A  simple  heart  it  was, 
Not  learn'd  in  any  lore  save  that  of  Heaven ; 
Yet,  in  its  order,  rare,  for  he  was  one 
Whom  God  had  made  a  poet  to  Himself; 
Poet,  indeed,  who  "never  wrote  a  verse," 
Yet  none  the  less  a  poet.     He  could  hear 
Music  that  did  not  come  to  common  ears, 
And  see,  what  eyes  around  him  seldom  saw. 
An  inner  life  beneath  the  outer  form 
Of  Nature  :  so  that,  knowing  not  his  gift, 
He  marvelled  that  his  fellows  gave  no  heed 
To  that  which  made  his  life  so  sweet  to  him, 
And  earth  so  dear  that  naught  could  come  amiss. 
Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  Winter,  day  and  night. 
The  shade  and  shine,  the  light  of  moon  and  stars, 
The  clouds  of  rain,  or  storm,  or  rolling  mist. 
The  whirlwind  and  the  zephyr — each  and  all 
Were  ministers  of  pleasure  :  every  one 
Taught  him  of  God. 

Those  years  of  solitude 
Fed  his  poetic  heart  from  morn  till  eve, 
From  eve  till  morn ;  and  each  repeated  change 
Made  new  delight. 

Often,  in  simple  words. 
Glad  of  an  ear  that  seemed  to  understand, 
He  told  me  how  the  Months  were  all  his  friends. 
And  had  their  mission  to  his  heart  and  soul 



With  sight  or  sound  ;  how,  not  in  Spring  alone, 

Or  Summer,  was  their  visitation  loved, 

But  how,  not  seldom,  he  would  lie  awake 

Communing  on  his  bed  in  peace,  and  hear 

The  tears  of  dying  Summer  dash  their  drops 

Against  the  thatch,  the  window,  and  the  door ; 

While  from  the  drench'd  woods  came  the  Autumn  throes. 

Wild  shrieks,  and  hollow  moanings  of  the  winds. 

That  rose  with  power  and  died  away  in  pain, 

That  died  in  pain  and  rose  again  with  power, 

The  long  night  through.     Or  in  the  Winter  days, 

"  I  love,  sir,"  he  would  say,  "to  hear  the  storm 

Go  roaring  through  the  glen  and  down  the  vale 

So  strong  and  terrible ;  for,  as  I  watch, 

It  minds  me  of  the  Psalm  you  preached  about 

A  while  ago — David  on  Lebanon, 

Hearing  the  Lord's  voice  in  the  thunder-roll 

O'er  many  waters  :  how  it  shook  above 

The  old,  eternal  mountains,  and  below 

The  still,  waste  land,  dividing,  as  it  sped, 

The  flames  of  fire ;  and  how  the  cedar-trees 

Brake  as  it  smote  them,  and  the  forest  depths 

Unclosed  before  it ;  but,  saith  he,  the  Lord 

Sitteth  above  the  thunder  and  the  flood, 

A  King  for  ever !  and  will  give  His  own 

Strength  for  the  storms  of  life,  and  afterward 

The  blessing  of  His  peace.     And  so  it  is 

The  end  is  always  peace ;  and  therefore,  sir, 

I  love  the  storm,  because  the  calm  at  last 

Is  sure,  and  sweeter  for  it." 


There  were  none 
In  all  the  scattered  hamlet  did  not  know 
Old  Robert ;  and  though  there  were  some  to  sneer — 
Poor  souls !  they  only  sneered  to  hide  the  shame 
Stirred  by  the  pricking  judgment  in  their  breasts — 
Because  his  kindly  face  changed  utterly, 
Stern,  sorrowful,  before  a  godless  deed 
Or  an  unholy  word  ;  yet  he  was  loved 
By  most,  and  honoured ;  chief  of  all  by  those 
The  furthest  from  him  in  the  scale  of  years ; 
For  the  child's  heart  within  the  aged  man 
Yearned  upon  little  children,  like  his  Lord's. 
No  hard  disciple  he  to  thrust  away 
Their  clambering  feet,  and  clinging  hands,  or  hush 
Their  eager  voices  !     'Twas  a  goodly  sight 
To  see  and  hear  them  on  a  summer  day 
Around  him,  like  some  old-world  patriarch 
With  half  a  hundred  children ;  or  to  watch 
How  in  God's  house,  on  every  Holy-day, 
He,  from  his  wonted  station  in  the  aisle, 
Beside  a  grey  stone  pillar  near  to  them. 
Joined,  in  the  holy  words  of  prayer  and  praise, 
His  deeper  tones  with  their  less  tremulous 
Sweet  voices,  and  to  note  how  with  a  look — 
The  old  saint,  with  the  little  ones  of  Christ, 
Like  somegood  shepherd  whom  the  young  lambs  know — 
He  would  win  back  into  the  ways  of  prayer 
Wandering  eyes  and  hearts. 

An  arbiter 
In  many  a  village  difference  was  he. 


And  oracle  of  counsel  in  their  need 

To  all  the  hamlet ;  and,  as  in  the  days 

Of  oracles  each  had  its  wonted  shrine 

And  station,  so  old  Robert  did  not  lack 

His  proper  tryst.     A  mighty  old  oak-tree 

Within  the  park,  fronting  the  far-off  hills 

That  lay  beyond  the  river,  made  for  him. 

Deep-hollowed  close  above  its  mossy  roots, 

A  seat  he  loved.     Here  any  one  who  sought 

Would  seek  him  when  the  sun  was  high  at  noon 

Or  low  at  eve ;  but  always  he  was  there 

At  the  first  break  of  dawn,  and  hence  it  was 

That,  with  a  mingled  reverence  and  jest, 

They  called  him  "  Morning  Robert,"  though  his  day 

Was  now  far  spent  towards  the  eventide ; 

For  a  strange  fancy  took  him  in  his  age 

Never  to  miss  the  sunrise  any  morn 

The  long  year  round.     So,  though  at  noon  or  eve 

Perchance  he  wandered  elsewhere,  never  came 

The  dawn  in  summer,  autumn,  winter,  spring. 

But  found  him  underneath  the  old  oak-tree 

In  vigil :  there  he  saw  the  new  day  born 

Above  the  hills,  in  clamour  of  the  winds. 

Or  brooding  mist,  or  rushing  clouds  of  rain. 

As  in  the  still  sweet  air  and  silver  sky. 

I  held  it  dear  to  see  and  speak  with  him 
Not  seldom  there.     The  picture  as  I  came 
Was  worthy  of  remembrance — the  great  tree. 
Knotted  and  gnarled  with  nigh  a  thousand  years. 
Yet  wearing  the  new  life  of  the  last  spring 


Upon  its  summit  greenly — underneath, 
The  old  man  seated,  calm  in  that  repose 
Which  is  not  of  the  world,  with  that  child's  look, 
Most  happy,  blending  with  the  dignity 
Of  many  years  and  natural  nobleness  ; 
His  long  staff,  reaching  from  him  to  the  ground. 
And  on  its  end  close  clasped  his  wrinkled  hands, 
And  over  them  the  reverend  reverent  face ; 
The  chin  just  laid  upon  the  hand,  the  head 
Leant  back  against  the  tree,  and  looking  up, 
Like  hers,  the  saint  of  many  tears  and  prayers — 
Whom  Scheffer  drew — what  time  at  Ostia 
She  sits  with  him,  her  son  new  born  to  God, 
And  communes  with  him  of  those  future  joys 
Unseen,  unknown,  undreamed  of,  yet  so  near 
They  brighten  o'er  her  ! 

If  he  saw  me  come. 
With  honour  for  my  office,  and  some  love 
(I  love  to  think  it)  for  me,  he  would  rise, 
And  underneath  his  lifted  hat  reveal 
That  old  man's  "crown  of  glory."     We  would  hold 
That  converse  then  which  only  they  can  hold 
Who  love  one  Lord ;  and,  most  of  all,  we  dwelt 
On  the  near  glory  of  that  heavenly  day 
For  which,  in  night-time  of  the  evil  world, 
God's  people  keep  their  vigil  evermore. 

And  yet,  withal,  there  came  to  him  no  sign 
That  soon  he  should  go  hence,  nor  did  he  deem, 
Despite  his  failing  limbs  and  fourscore  years, 
His  time  was  near,  until,  on  one  sad  eve, 



A  little  maiden  whom  he  called  "  Deare  Childe," 

Making  short  sojourn  in  this  pilgrim  land, 

Went  home — went  home,  but  left  the  world  so  dark 

To  us  who  loved  her,  and,  not  least,  to  him 

To  whose  hoar  winter  she  was  like  the  spring, 

So  often  that  old  tree  was  trysting-place 

Where  she  would  meet  him  after  hours  of  school, 

With  sunbeams  in  her  eyes  and  on  her  hair, 

And  merry  prattle  like  the  morning  wind. 

Or  low  sweet  talk,  like  evening's  softer  breeze, 

Of  God,  and  heaven,  and  angels,  and  that  Love 

Which  loved  us  unto  death  in  Holy  Land 

Long  years  ago,  and  lives  to  love  us  still 

Beyond  the  worlds. — Not  till  she  passed  away 

He  seemed  to  lose  his  vigorous  hold  on  life  ; 

But  on  that  eve  when,  as  the  sun  sank  down. 

Her  soul  arose  and  spread  its  wings  for  flight, 

And  left  us  to  the  darkness,  as  I  went 

Homeward,  grief-stricken, — for  I  loved  the  child, 

God  knoweth  ! — leaning  on  the  garden  gate 

I  found  him  watching.     With  a  single  look 

He  read  my  wordless  answer  all  too  plain. 

Perhaps  a  man's  tears  leave  a  deeper  trace — 

Perhaps  some  strange  reflection,  lingering  still, 

Caught  from  the  deathly  presence,  told  the  tale — 

Howbeit,  he  read  it  all,  and  turned  away  ; 

But  such  a  groan  broke  from  him,  I  was  fain 

To  stay  him  with  a  hand  upon  his  arm, 

And  force  one  word,  "  The  maiden  is  not  dead, 

But  sleepeth." 


Then  he  turned  again  and  stood 
Before  me,  silent.     Neither  spoke  awhile, 
And,  though  my  grief  was  selfish,  and  I  longed 
To  be  alone  with  that  remembered  face. 
That  little  form  of  saintly  sweet  repose, 
And  those  last  words,  I  might  not  leave  him  there. 
So  strangely  grieved  beyond  the  wont  of  age, 
The  whole  frame  rocked  like  some  grey  tower  that  feels 
The  earth-wave  roll  beneath  it.     So  we  stood  ; 
The  summer  even  darkening  towards  the  night, 
The  breeze  that  rose  at  sunset  from  the  west  » 

Now  dying  wearily  in  sighs  that  shook 
Faintly  the  leaves  above  us.     Then  again. 
Touching  his  hand,  I  spoke.     "Is  it  too  long 
To  tarry  for  the  morning,  when  they  meet 
Who  parted  in  the  night  ?     That  morning  comes 
In  God's  good  time ;  when  He  shall  will  it  comes. 
It  will  not  tarry."     Then  he  raised  his  head 
Quickly  as  one  who  hears,  or  thinks  he  hears, 
A  summons  far  away.     A  little  while 
He  seemed  as  one  who  listened ;  then  as  though 
He  heard  the  voice  that  called  him,  "  Ah!"  he  said — 
Musingly,  not  to  me,  within  himself — 
*'  The  youngest,  now  the  oldest."     Then  a  change 
Revived  the  shaken  frame,  and  lit  the  face. 
Which  had  been  dark,  with  light  so  strange  and  new, 
I  marvelled.     But  my  own  heart  calling  me 
Back  to  myself,  I  left  him  with  one  word 
Of  benediction. 


But,  from  that  day  forth, 
There  was  not  one  that  might  not  mark  a  change 
In  Robert ;  not  of  weariness,  or  pain. 
Or  that  which  is  the  strength  of  many  years, 
"  Labour  and  sorrow  " ;  rather  might  be  seen 
A  brightness,  added  to  the  wonted  look 
Of  peace  he  wore.     He  did  not  seem  like  one 
Waiting,  however,  patiently,  for  that 
Which  might  be  yet  far  off;  but  like  a  man 
Who  knows  with  joy  one  more  swift  hour  will  end 
The  long  delay.     It  was,  indeed,  as  though 
Patience  with  him  had  had  her  perfect  work, 
And  in  his  soul  already  had  begun 
The  full  joy  of  fruition.     Yet  to  none 
He  bade  farewell.     And  some  there  were  who  said, 
Noting  that  change  which  brightened  in  his  face, 
But  seeing  naught  beneath  it,  "  Sure  it  was 
Robert  had  got  another  lease  of  life, 
And  would  outlive  them  all."     And  others  said, 
"  They  marvelled  Robert  had  so  soon  forgot 
The  little  maid  he  seemed  to  dote  upon." 
But  those  who  knew  him  better  saw  the  change. 
And  only  wondered  with  a  kind  of  awe. 
But  me  he  told  in  secret  he  believed 
The  time  was  very  near  when  for  his  soul 
The  blessed  dawn  should  break  behind  the  hills, 
And  bring  the  eternal  day.     "  And  yet,"  he  said, 
"  I  do  not  know,  sir,  why  I  am  so  sure ; 
No  angel  told  me  ;  no,  nor  in  a  dream 
Have  I  been  warned ;  and  so  I  do  not  say 

"MORNING   ROBERT  '  i8i 

Openly,  I  am  sure,  lest,  if  it  be 

I  am  mistaken,  I  should  live  to  hear 

My  dear  hope  jested  on — but,  sir,  I  think 

I  cannot  be  mistaken,  though  no  dream 

Or  angel  has  revealed  it ;  for  that  night 

On  which  the  little  maiden  went  to  God, 

And  you,  sir,  told  me,  when  my  heart  was  sick, 

That  when  the  Lord  shall  will  the  morning  comes 

And  will  not  tarry,  then,  I  know  not  how, 

But  suddenly  my  breast  was  filled  with  joy, 

As  though  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  Lord 

Coming  upon  the  mountains.     "  He  will  come, 

He  will  not  tarry,"  sounded  in  my  soul ; 

Not  faintly,  as  in  whispers,  but  as  though 

A  hundred  voices  said  it.     Then  I  thought, 

Surely  it  is  a  message  sent  from  God, 

And  by  His  priest  He  bids  me  stand  prepared 

For  His  quick  coming.     Therefore,  sir,  I  wait, 

Believing  He  is  near.     Yea,  even  so. 

Lord  Jesus,  come  !     Amen  " 

I  looked  at  him, 
His  head  bent  low  in  utterance  of  the  prayer, 
The  ancient,  holy  prayer,  wherewith  is  closed 
The  great  Apocalypse.     And  "  such,"  I  thought, 
"  Was  he  who  prayed  it  on  that  latest  page 
Of  inspiration,  he,  the  most  beloved 
Where  all  were  loved,  yet  last  to  pass  away ; 
The  old  disciple,  full  of  years,  and  worn 
With  many  toils,  but  like  a  little  child 
In  confidence  and  gentleness  and  love." 


Summer  was  young  when  our  "deare  childe"  was  laid 
Under  the  chancel  window,  and  her  grave 
Was  still  made  bright,  beneath  the  little  cross, 
With  summer  blossoms,  when,  one  early  morn, 
I  passed  it  by.     No  purpose  led  me  forth, 
Only  a  vague  desire  that  I  might  feel 
The  first  fresh  breathing  of  the  infant  morn 
And  see  its  earliest  smiling  down  the  hills 
And  o'er  the  stream.     I  wandered  by  the  wood, 
And  passed  the  lonely  cottage.     Then,  I  thought, 
"  Robert  not  yet  has  left  his  morning  watch, 
And  he  shall  tell  me  with  what  joy  he  saw. 
An  hour  ago,  the  sun  rise." 

From  the  wood 
I  came  behind  the  tree  to  where  he  sat 
Beneath  it.     Then  I  thought  he  was  asleep. 
Because  he  moved  not,  and  his  eyes,  half-closed, 
Seemed  overcast  and  dim,  and  when  I  spoke 
He  did  not  hear  me. 

"  Robert !  do  you  sleep  ?  " 
I  said,  and  bent  to  touch  him. — Then  I  saw 
Indeed  he  slept.     It  was  the  sleep  of  him 
Who  slept  within  the  cave  of  Bethany, 
Whom  none  could  wake  but  Jesus. 

He  was  dead : 
Dead  underneath  the  dying  old  oak  tree — 
(Its  last  leaf  died  that  autumn).     "  O  my  friend," 
I  cried,  with  tearless  bitterness  at  heart, 
"  I  came  to  hear  thee  speak  of  light  and  joy, 
And  thou  art  dead  !  " 


Shivering  with  grief,  I  turned, 
And — lo  !  before  me  glowed  the  living  morn — 
The  great  unclouded  sun  above  the  hills 
Made  hills  and  woods  and  river  beautiful ; 
And  overhead,  unseen,  I  just  might  hear 
A  lark  that  sang  to  God  his  matin  song 
Of  praise  for  light  and  joy. 

Again  I  turned, 
Fronting  the  sleeping  saint,  and  as  my  tears 
Fell  part  in  sorrow,  part  in  penitence, 
I  knelt  beside  him  with  that  ancient  prayer. 
As  I  had  heard  him  pray  it,  "  Even  so, 
Lord  Jesus,  come  !     Amen." 

Thus  did  he  die. 
That  good  old  man.     And  for  ourselves,  indeed. 
It  could  not  be  but  we  must  mourn  for  him. 
We  miss  him  at  the  solitary  tree ; 
We  miss  his  reverent  greeting  by  the  way ; 
We  miss  him  in  the  Church's  holy  hours 
From  that  grey  pillar,  and  the  altar-rail. 
How  many  mourn  that  childless,  poor  old  man  ! 
That  lonely,  unimportant,  poor  old  man  ! 
Oh,  nay ! — that  heir  of  heaven,  that  royal  saint. 
That  brother  of  the  Lord,  that  king  and  priest 
To  God  Almighty  !     Yes,  and  we  who  mourn 
With  love's  true  sorrow,  yet  will  never  say 
"  Alas  !  "  but  "  Hallelujah  !  "—lost  to  us. 
But  found  in  heavenly  places  !     He  has  left 
A  vacant  niche  in  earth's  cathedral  front, 
But  in  God's  Eden,  by  the  crystal  stream, 


Under  the  tree  of  life,  a  glorious  form, 
He  fills  a  glorious  place ;  his  eyes  behold 
The  Great  King  in  His  beauty  ;  in  the  glow 
And  splendour  of  that  Day,  for  which  he  looked 
And  longed  and  waited,  now  at  last  he  hears 
The  chantings  of  the  myriad  morning  stars 
Of  which  he  caught  the  echoes,  though  so  far 
Not  faintly,  here. 

For  us,  who  still  are  here, 
We  follow  :  if  so  be,  by  grace  of  Christ, 
We  also  may  attain,  and  hear,  like  him. 
The  Voice  of  the  Beloved,  beyond  the  hills, 
Calling  our  souls  to  gather  to  His  light, 
When  the  day  breaks,  and  shadows  flee  away. 


From  his  short  slumber  in  the  early  morn 

The  sick  man  woke.     Beneath  the  window  sill, 

Caged  in  this  alien  land,  an  English  lark, 

Making  melodious  prelude  to  the  light 

Ere  the  dark  shades  were  driven  all  away, 

Lightened  its  exile  with  the  songs  of  home. 

Strange  in  that  land,  alone  of  all  its  kind, 

Well  was  "  the  Birdie  "  known  for  leagues  around ; 

Rough  men,  uncouth  in  look  and  speech,  would  come, 

As  those  who  keep  a  Sabbath  after  toil, 

And  hush  their  ribald  blasphemies,  as  though 

They  stood  in  holy  presence  while  it  sang ; 

And  their  wild  faces  would  take  back  again 

Some  looks  of  childhood  and  those  purer  days 

Far  off,  or  ere  the  branding  lust  of  gold 

Had  marred  them. 

On  this  morn  the  Birdie's  note 
Woke  from  his  fevered  sleep  the  dying  man. 
He  knew  the  time  was  near  that  he  must  die : 

^  Elihu  Burritt  tells  a  story  of  the  intense  interest  excited  among  the 
colonists  of  an  Australian  settlement  by  the  singing  of  a  lark — a  bird 
not  indigenous  to  Australia — kept  in  a  cage  outside  her  window  by 
a  widow.  She  had  brought  it  over  from  England  to  share  her  exile, 
and  refused  all  the  many  offers  of  purchase  made  to  her. 



And,  smiling  as  the  broken-hearted  smile, 
He  said  in  thought,  "  This  wide  Australian  land, 
That  never  gave  me  welcome  to  her  arms 
Or  bade  me  find  a  home  upon  her  breast, 
Will  open  soon  her  heart  and  lay  me  there. 
And  suffering  none  to  break  my  quiet  sleep. 
There  she  will  clasp  me  closely  till  the  end." 

Was  it  not  hard  to  die  so  far  away 
From  all  of  place  and  person  that  he  loved  ? 
To  die  alone,  not  one  of  all  his  kin 
To  minister  the  last  necessities. 
To  fan  the  burning  fever  from  his  brow, 
To  cool  his  hot  dry  lips,  and,  more  than  all. 
To  give  him  tender  words  and  loving  looks, 
And  make  death  calm  and  holy — as  a  wind 
At  even,  breathing  softly  from  the  west. 
Gladdens  the  dying  sunlight,  or  as  when 
It  breathes  Hke  pity  through  the  autumn  woods. 
And  the  sere  leaves  like  dying  hopes  float  down 
Gently  to  their  decay,  not  torn  by  gusts 
Nor  whirled  away  in  tempest — even  so 
To  breathe  upon  him  all  the  gracious  air 
Of  reconciling  sympathies,  and  then 
To  close  at  last  the  sightless  eyes,  and  then 
To  shroud  the  still  cold  form,  and  reverently, 
As  one  who  sows  immortal  seed  for  God, 
To  lay  it  in  the  furrow  of  a  grave, 
Waiting  His  golden  harvest,  over  it. 
Dropping  the  precious  rain  of  holy  tears. 
Not  one — and  yet  how  might  he  call  it  hard  ? 

THE   BIRDIE  187 

No  other  hand  than  his  had  cut  the  bonds 
That  bound  him  to  his  kin  and  to  his  home. 
Nor  might  he  rail  against  the  land  he  loved 
And  longed  for  far  away ;  nor  stern  nor  cold 
Had  been  its  motherhood  to  him  her  son, 
But  kindly,  as  a  mother,  she  had  given 
All  liberal  gifts  to  meet  a  modest  need, 
And  yet,  as  one  too  wise  in  love  to  spoil. 
Withheld  her  treasure  from  his  grasp.     But  he 
Had  heard  a  siren-call  come  o'er  the  waves 
From  the  great  Golden  Isle,  had  seen  in  dreams 
A  glorious  spectre  clothed  in  sheen  of  gold 
That  motioned  him  to  follow ;  unto  whom 
He  said,  "  I  follow,"  and  arose  and  went. 
Went — careless  of  the  dear  familiar  land, 
Heedless  of  loving  eyes  that  wept  for  him, 
Deaf  to  the  tender  voices  praying  him. 
Scornful  of  duty  with  her  stern  reproach, 
"  Stay,  for  thy  place  is  here," — and  more  than  all 
Striving  to  cover  what  he  could  not  hide, 
A  Form  with  Arms  outstretched  to  draw  him  near, 
To  deaden  that  within  which  would  not  die, 
Another,  "  Follow  Me,  for  thou  art  Mine." 

O'er  the  long  leagues  of  that  sea  waste  between, 
Cursing  the  tardy  hours  that  would  not  fly 
And  bring  him  face  to  face  with  all  his  hope 
Quick  as  his  eager  longing,  on  and  on 
The  gleaming  spectre  lured  him ;  till  it  stood 
In  that  far  land  which  seemed  another  world. 
And  bade  him  come  and  thrust  his  greedy  hands 


Into  that  treasure-heap.     It  is  a  tale 
Oft  told,  yet  not  too  often.     While  he  grasped 
There  came  against  him  surely  one  by  one 
Avenging  powers  to  hinder  :  pains  of  toil 
Unwonted,  hateful  scenes  of  sin  and  strife. 
The  savage  life  beneath  the  burning  sun, 
The  broken  sleep  of  fear  beneath  the  stars, 
The  want  of  better  things  than  gold,  and  then 
The  robber's  cruel  hand  that  made  in  vain 
Long  weary  months  of  labour,  then  disease. 
And  with  it  none  to  heal  and  none  to  cheer ; 
And  so  it  was  that  ere  a  year  was  gone 
He  saw  that  golden  phantom,  as  a  cloud 
Tinted  by  sunset  lapses  into  gloom. 
Slow  darken  into  grisly  hues  of  death. 

And  now  it  was  that  memories  of  home 
And  those  fond  hearts  that  waited  wearily 
Beyond  the  evermore-dividing  seas, 
Came  thronging  in  sweet  sadness  over  him. 
With  holy  influence  from  the  Source  of  love 
Moving  his  soul  to  prayer.     And  so  the  Form 
Which  he  had  sought  in  vain  to  see  no  more 
Looked  also  down  upon  his  heart  in  love, 
Not  in  reproach  :  he  thought  those  gracious  Arms 
Leaned  to  him  from  their  Cross  of  pain  as  though 
To  draw  him  near  for  blessing ;  and  a  Voice, 
Rich  with  the  eloquence  of  mercy,  seemed 
Ever  to  fall  more  clearly  on  his  soul 
"  Ere  long  thou  shalt  be  with  Me — thou  art  Mine." 

THE   BIRDIE  189 

And  on  this  early  morning  as  he  lay, 
Yet  clearer,  nearer  seemed  to  fall  that  Voice, 
"  This  day  thou  shalt  be  with  Me,"  and  his  soul 
Made  answer,  "  Yea,  since  Thou  forgavest  him 
Who  died  that  day,  I,  though  more  vile  than  he. 
Will  hope  for  mercy  greater  than  my  sin." 

And  as  he  lay  and  brighter  grew  the  morn, 
And  sweeter  sang  the  Birdie,  while  a  sense 
Of  pardon  calmed  the  waters  of  his  soul 
Into  a  perfect  stillness — on  their  breast 
Came  mirrored  from  the  old  beloved  land 
Scene  after  scene  of  other  days  long  dead  : 
Came  not  to  trouble  but  to  soothe,  and  all 
Seemed  wrought  to  real  life  as  by  a  spell, 
And  the  spell-worker  seemed  the  Birdie's  song. 

Oh  sweetly,  sweetly  rang  the  joyous  note  ! 
He  thought  he  was  a  child  again,  and  stood 
With  others,  children  also,  by  a  stream 
Which,  as  it  were  the  type  of  their  glad  lives, 
Ran,  making  merry  music  through  the  fields, 
Ran,  with  a  rippling  welcome  and  farewell 
To  every  blossom  met  and  left  behind. 
Ran,  careless  of  the  solemn  mystery 
Of  ocean  ever  nearer  day  by  day. 
So  sped  he  with  his  fellows  by  the  banks 
And  through  the  meadows,  greeting  hastily 
All  bonny  things  and  bright,  and  stayed  for  none, 
Heeding  no  future  save  the  next  hour's  play — 
And  round  and  o'er  him  laughed  the  frolic  wind. 


Oh  sweetly,  sweetly  rang  the  Birdie's  note  ! 
And  now  he  was  a  boy  whose  eager  heart 
Would  fain  in  this  the  glimmering  dawn  attain 
Manhood's  full  day  :  with  visionary  eyes 
Blending  his  future  with  the  glorious  past 
He  saw  no  present :  all  the  quiet  hills 
About  his  home  were  castled  heights  o^  war, 
And  down  their  placid  sides  his  fancy  scanned 
Descending  squadrons  sweeping  to  the  fray. 
The  keen  fresh  morning  breezes  woke  his  soul 
Like  battle  clarions ;  peaceful  woodland  scenes, 
Through  which  the  simple  cotter  wound  his  way. 
He  peopled  from  the  noble  names  of  Eld 
With  warrior  forms  :  great  Arthur,  flower  of  kings. 
True  friend  and  terrible  foe,  rode  there ;  and  there 
Sir  Galahad,  who  sought  the  Holy  Grail, 
With  earnest  face  and  pure ;  and  here  was  heard 
Sir  Roland's  horn :  and  ever  there  and  here 
Some  immemorial  deed  was  wrought  again. 
These  faces  and  a  thousand  else  he  saw, 
He  saw  them  all  and  loved  them,  and  he  longed 
To  follow  and  be  like  them  ;  and  the  sun 
Shone  brightly  o'er  him,  and  the  blackbird's  call 
Came  to  him  like  a  bugle  from  the  dell. 
And  all  things  seemed  so  beautiful  and  true, 
He  cried  aloud  until  the  echoes  rang— 
And  round  and  o'er  him  swept  the  rolling  wind. 

Oh  sweetly,  sweetly  rang  the  Birdie's  note  ! 
And  now  the  scene  was  changed,  and  still  alone, 
Yet  not  alone,  for  there  is  life  in  death. 

THE   BIRDIE  191 

He  stood  beside  a  grave.     Not  many  years 
Had  made  him  older  since  that  day,  and  yet 
Not  one  expectant  glance  in  those  dim  eyes, 
Not  one  bright  gleam  upon  the  stricken  face, 
Alas  !  not  e'en  toward  Heav'n  ;  he  stands  and  looks 
A  stony  look  beneath,  and  bitter  words 
Low-voiced  with  sullen  passion  made  their  way  : 
"  I  loved  her  with  a  love  that  made  me  pure. 
And  she  is  gone ;  the  truth  was  in  her  eyes, 
And  they  are  closed  for  ever ;  her  bright  hair 
Made  chains  to  bind  me  to  the  hope  she  held 
Of  God  and  angels ;  they  are  loosened  chains 
There  in  the  dust.     She  was  my  all  in  all. 
Truth,  Honour,  Beauty,  Purpose,  Purity, 
Hope,  Joy,  Faith,  Comfort — all — and  she  forsooth 
Was  needed  elsewhere  and  not  left  to  me. 
And  I  go  forth  and  care  not  where  I  go  ! " — 
And  round  and  o'er  him  sighed  the  ghostly  wind. 

Yet  sweetly,  sweetly  rang  the  Birdie's  note. 
Cloud-like  the  sin  of  those  remembered  words 
Troubled  the  vision  of  the  dying  man. 
A  moment — and  it  sped,  for  now  no  more 
Came  memories  of  the  past ;  a  marvellous  light 
Such  as  he  knew  not,  drowning  all  the  morn. 
Flooded  his  soul,  and  music  wonderful. 
In  which  the  Birdie's  warble  blent  and  died, 
Began,  rose,  swelled  and  deepened  into  Heaven 
Louder  than  loudest  thunders,  yet  more  soft 
Than  all  earth's  sweetest  silence.     Then  a  form, 
Bright  from  God's  presence  hovered  down  and  smiled — 


And  yet  he  knew  it — and  a  voice  he  knew, 
Attuned  to  that  strange  music,  flowed  to  him, 
"  Arise,  come  hence,  beloved  !     I  am  sent 
To  bring  thee,  for  He  calleth  thee,  and  now 
Thine  eyes  shall  see  Him — Come." 

Before  the  day 
Shed  its  full  lustre,  one  who  slept  beneath 
Woke  with  a  sudden  start,  and  knew  not  why, 
But  rising  quick,  and  coming  half  in  fear 
Within  that  chamber,  he  beheld  his  face 
Shine  with  a  light  which  was  not  of  the  sun. 
Nor  yet  of  inner  life,  for  he  was  dead  ; 
Dead,  yet  without,  as  though  there  were  no  death. 
And  as  its  music  had  been  learnt  in  Heaven, 
Sweeter  and  sweeter  sang  the  Birdie  still. 


"Grant,  O  Lord,  .  .  .  that  through  the  grave,  and  gate  of  death,  we 
may  pass  to  our  joyful  resurrection." — Collect  for  Easter  Eve, 

The  watching  Church  was  near  her  Easter  hope; 

The  waiting  earth  was  close  upon  her  spring, 
Soft  breezes  wooed  the  woodland  buds  to  ope 
And  woodland  choirs  to  sing. 

Yet  was  not  Lententide  nor  winter  past, 

Still  were  the  lands  of  leaf  and  flower  forlorn ; 
And  Christian  souls  kept  one  more  quiet  Fast 
Or  ere  their  Festal  Morn. 

It  was  Death's  hour  :  but  close  are  Death  and  Life : 

The  long  loud  storms  had  breathed  their  latest  breath; 
In  dying  is  the  agony  and  strife, 

But  solemn  peace  in  Death. 

So  had  the  awful  Friday  passed  in  pain, 

And  souls  were  calm  that  had  not  ceased  to  grieve, 

Since  in  their  sorrow  Hope  drew  close  again, 
Again  with  Easter  Eve. 
o  193 


One  lay  and  waited  as  the  hours  went  on, 

Watching  the  shadows  deepen  round  his  bed  : 
One  whose  long  Lent  of  life  was  almost  gone, 
And  winter  well-nigh  sped. 

Spring  was  so  near  him,  and  the  glorious  Feast ; 

And  his  believing  soul  in  calm  foretaste 
E'en  in  that  death-hour  from  all  trouble  ceased, 
Nor  needed  to  make  haste. 

And  one  was  watching  with  him,  young  and  fair, 

But  fairer  than  in  beauty  of  her  youth, 
By  that  sweet  patience  which  meets  earth's  despair. 
Secure  of  Love  and  Truth  : 

His  Love,  His  Truth,  Who  cannot  change  or  lie, 
Lover  of  souls  and  Lord  o'er  Death  and  Hell ; 
Who  saith,  "  In  Me  all  things  below,  on  high. 
For  you  are  always  well." 

Her  heart  was  full  of  tears,  and  almost  rent, 

Well-nigh  too  full  for  life,  yet  her  child's  will— 
A  will  not  lost  but  with  her  Father's  blent — 
Lay  satisfied  and  still. 

Husband  and  wife  :  so  dear,  so  near,  that  earth 
Had  naught  for  each  without  the  other  good, 
Yet  son  and  daughter  by  one  heavenly  Birth, 
Beneath  one  Fatherhood. 

THE   GATE   OF   DEATH  195 

And  heaven  is  more  than  earth,  and  so  their  love 

Was  more  than  earthly,  even  as  their  life — 
In  souls  so  sure  of  hidden  bliss  above 
No  sorrow  grows  to  strife. 

"  My  children  do  not  part,  and  cannot  die  "  : 

Yesterday  taught  them  by  the  Cross  in  sight, 
To-day  by  that  dark  Sepulchre  hard  by. 
Morn  by  its  promised  light. 

She  sat  beside  him  till  the  night  grew  deep, 

Her  eyes  on  his,  his  hand  within  her  hand, 
The  perfect  peace  she  saw  had  power  to  keep 
Her  own  heart  in  command. 

Not  much  they  said  :  Love  unto  love  can  tell 

Its  inmost  feeling,  though  of  words  be  none. 
By  look,  by  touch,  in  thought  they  commune  well. 
Whose  heart  and  soul  are  one. 

Yet,  twice  he  spoke :  once,  when  as  day  grew  dim. 

And  a  bell  ceased  upon  the  still  March  air, 
She  sang  the  Church's  Psalms  and  one  sweet  hymn,^ 
And  prayed  the  Vigil  Prayer. 

Then  first  he  said,  " '  The  Grave  and  Gate  of  Death ' 

Are  near  this  Eve  :  Lord  !  let  my  soul  be  borne 
Through  them  to  Thee  with  the  first  light  and  breath 
Of  Thy  victorious  Morn. 

^  See  Hymns  Ancient  and  Modern^  No.  105. 


"  I  will  '  remain  in  patient  watch '  till  day — 

This  gloom  is  holy,  for  it  once  was  Thine — 
Then,  O  my  Righteousness  !  with  Thy  first  ray 
Bid  me  arise  and  shine." 

Again  was  heartfelt  silence  for  an  hour ; 

Then  one  came  in,  whose  voice  well-known  and  dear 
Brought  prayer  and  counsel  and  the  Word  of  power 
The  contrite  love  to  hear. 

Beautiful  were  his  feet.     When  he  was  gone 

Light  seemed  to  linger  and  the  calm  increase, 
Flowing  from  those  last  words,  the  benison 
Of  the  eternal  peace. 

The  hours  crept  on  :  till  dawn  was  close,  and  still 

She  watched  beside  him.    Once  she  thought  he  slept, 
Nor  knew  but  it  was  death,  and  then  her  will 
Failed  in  her,  and  she  wept. 

No  sound,  but  tears  upon  his  hand  could  tell 

Her  anguish ;  and,  with  love  that  could  not  chide, 
He  whispered,  "  Dearest,  even  this  is  well, 
He  wept  when  Lazarus  died ; 

"  He  knows  His  sheep ;  God-Man  ;  and  in  His  ears 

Your  cry  is  holy  ;  even  Hope  can  weep  : 
'I  go,'  He  said,  and  went,  amidst  His  tears, 
'  To  wake  him  out  of  sleep.' 

THE   GATE   OF  DEATH  197 

"  Like  Him  you  weep — and  I — O  love,  my  wife, 
I  weep  too ! — but  our  tears  do  Faith  no  wrong, 
The  heirs  together  of  the  grace  of  life. 
Our  parting  is  not  long  ; 

*'  Yet  now  we  part ;  and  e'en  the  '  little  while ' 
Seems  long  to  love  :  but  oh  !  if  life  is  sweet, 
Sweeter  it  is  to  lay  it  with  a  smile 
At  our  dear  Master's  feet. 

*'  My  darling,  this  is  all ;  speech  fails  ;  stoop  low, 

Tenderest  face  I  love  so  ! — now,  before 

Sight,  sense,  fail  also,  and  I  cannot  know 

Even  you — kiss  me  once  more." 

She  kissed  him.     O  how  piteously  her  soul 

Longed  to  go  with  him,  even  while  its  cry 
Lay  hushed  in  reverence,  for  its  trust  was  whole 
In  its  great  agony. 

She  kneeled,  her  arms  about  him,  by  the  bed. 
And  watching  the  dim  eye  \nd  fitful  breath, 
Seemed  with  her  still  white  face  beside  his  head 
A  very  Bride  of  Death. 

Slowly  the  darkness  shrouded  all  the  room. 

As  the  spent  fire  and  watch-light  died  away ; 
Slowly  again  came  creeping  o'er  the  gloom 
The  sense  of  the  new  day. 


A  low  broad  window  looked  toward  the  East ; 

And  as  a  hand  before  a  taper's  gleam 
Glows  red,  its  curtain  folds,  as  dawn  increased, 
Veined  with  rich  life  did  seem. 

His  face  was  from  it :  but  in  fear  anon 

She  saw  his  spirit  saw,  by  the  set  eyes, 
The  loosened  clasp,  the  gesture  as  of  one 
Preparing  to  arise ; 

Then  one  faint  sign ;  whereat — as  if  she  knew 

Behind  it  all  the  Beatific  Sight 
Lay  veiled — with  awful  hand  she  backward  drew 
The  curtain  from  the  light. 

Blest  Light,  blest  Morning  !  beautiful  it  shone 

Just  over  the  dark  hills  with  orient  rays, 
Which,  like  the  summons  from  a  trumpet  blown, 
Poured  full  upon  her  gaze. 

He  slowly  turned  to  look  from  where  he  lay : 

Then  once  or  twice,  like  one  most  blest,  he  sighed, 
Then  laid  his  pale  hands  close  as  if  to  pray, 
And,  gazing  still,  he  died. 

Christ's  Morning  !  ceased  before  it  the  old  law 
That  bound  in  prison-house  the  yearning  soul. 
Which  fled  to  taste  the  glory  that  it  saw, 
Freed  from  its  long  control. 

THE   GATE   OF   DEATH  199 

"  Difiiiiiis,  Domine  !  " — was  that  the  prayer  ? — 

"  Here  have  I  seen  Thy  Promise,  Risen  Lord  ; 
Now  I  depart  to  find  Thy  Fulness  there, 
According  to  Thy  Word  !  " 

And  she  ? — she  waits  ;  alone  but  not  forlorn. 

And  learning  more  to  long  as  less  to  grieve, 
Keeps,  with  an  ever  brighter  hope  of  morn, 
Her  quiet  Easter  Eve. 



"  Who  is  among  you  that  walketh  in  darkness,  and  hath  no  light? 
Let  him  trust  in  the  Name  of  the  Lord." — Isaiah  1.  lo. 

In  One  Name  I  have  found  the  all  in  all. 

It  is  enough,  and  It  will  never  fail. 

Here  on  the  height,  or  there  within  the  vale, 
In  this  my  strength  I  shall  not  greatly  fall. 
If  on  the  dark  hills  here  thy  fears  appal, 

O  thou  mine  Enemy  !  or  there  assail 

My  fainting  heart,  yet  shall  they  not  prevail. 
For  on  the  Name  thou  dreadest  I  will  call. 

Oh  then  rejoice  not !  for  I  shall  arise. 
And  heavenly  light  shall  stream  across  the  gloom, 
And  heavenly  music  drown  the  voice  of  doom. 

And  a  most  blissful  prospect  cheer  mine  eyes  : 
All  from  that  Name  beloved  and  adored, 
Thy  sweet  great  Name,  O  Jesus  Christ,  my  Lord. 







Master-Magician  of  that  breezy  Spring 
Ere  my  first  decade  died — when  life  awoke 
Within  me  of  the  mystic  world,  and  broke 

In  such  illuming  flashes  as  still  fling 

Light  on  my  soul — in  bugle-calls  that  ring 

Still  in  mine  ears  !  thy  wand  it  was  whose  stroke 
As  swift  in  power  as  April's  on  the  oak, 

Stirred  all  my  life  to  rich  imagining. 

Oh  glamour  not  of  love  or  ladies'  eyes, 

But  of  the  stream,  the  mountain,  and  the  glen, 
Of  war-horse  champing,  clash  of  armoured  men. 

And  song  that,  like  its  subject,  never  dies ! 
Master-Romancer,  not  supreme  to-day. 
Power  yet  was  thine  which  cannot  pass  away. 





Then  with  the  early  summer  came  the  zest 

For  food  not  meet  for  babes — for  old-world  lore 
Ere  "Pan  was  dead"  ^ — for  fervent  thought  to  soar 

Where  sang  "  The  Seraphim"  ^ — or,  in  anxious  quest, 

To  plunge  through  deep  seas  at  the  soul's  behest, 
And  find  with  beating  heart  and  bated  breath 
How  knowledge  is  by  suffering,  life  by  death  ^ — 

White  Pearls  of  truth  'neath  Ocean's  darkling  breast. 

Aurora,*  from  thine  hand  the  summer  long 

I  drank  the  "  Wine  of  Cyprus  "  :^  with  thine  eyes 
I  saw  from  "  out  the  depths  "  *"'  to  the  clear  skies. 

And  heard  thy  voice  sing  true  the  spheric  songJ 
More  than  our  "England's  Sappho  "^  is  thy  due: 
Earth's  Sovereign  Poetess,  as  great  as  true. 

'  TAe  Dead  Fan,  vol.  iii.,  4th  Edition,  1856. 

*  Ibid.,  vol.  i. 

■^  See  Vision  of  Poets ,  Ibid.,  vol.  i. 

^  Aurora  Leigh — the  title  of  her  most  important  work.    It  is  in  some 
sort  autobiographical. 

*  See  vol.  iii.,  4th  Edition,  1856. 

^  See  "De  Profundis"  in  Last  Poems,  1862. 

^  See  Sonnet,  Perplexed  Music,  vol.  ii.,  4th  Edition,  1856. 

*  A  title  given  to  the  poetess  by  Edgar  A,  Poe. 




Ere  this,  and  in  the  fuller  year,  there  fell 
On  mind  and  soul  made  ready  long  ago- 
Receptive  ground  for  such  an  overflow, 
Nile-like,  of  grace  from  mystic  hills— a  spell 
Of  power  made  sweet  by  music's  miracle, 

That  showed  stern  truth,  high  duty,  steeped  i' 

the  glow 
Of  such  fair  trust  my  restless  heart  below 
Answered  far  Heaven  at  last  with  "All  is  well.''^ 
I  swear,  O  Poet,  by  thy  "Voices  "^  twain. 
By  souls  that  cannot  prove  and  yet  believe,^ 
By  Love  and  Duty,  by  Saint  Agnes'  Eve, 
By  Arthur,  Galahad,  Gareth,  and  their  train. 
Thou  art  the  Master-Prophet  of  this  age  : 
Its  sweetest  music-maker,  surest  sage. 

^  See  Section  cxxvi.  in  /«  Memoriam. 

2  The  Two  Voices. 

*  See  Proemion  to  In  Memoriam. 




"The  richest  glow  sets  round  th'  autumnal  sun":^ 

And  so  about  the  later  year  there  grew  1 

A  light  of  holier  influence,  deeper  hue, 
Than  that  which  fell  so  fresh  on  life  begun, 
Or  that  the  radiant  summer  ever  won,  d 

A  light  which  brought,  with  all  things  fair  and  new, 

That  spiritual  City  clear  in  view 
Where  the  true  life  begins  "  when  life  is  done."  ^ 
Priest-Poet, — Phosphor  of  the  Light  of  Light, 

"  Sun  of  my  soul " — still  is  the  singing  sweet 

Of  those  high  Poets,  beautiful  their  feet 
Still  on  the  hills  which  darken  toward  the  night. 

But  thy  deep  voice  is  tenderest  in  mine  ear. 

Nearest  thy  saintly  presence  and  most  dear. 

^  See  Christian  Year,  2nd  Sunday  after  Epiphany. 
^  Ibid. 


ON  founder's  day,  1872 

Since  I  knelt  here  ten  years  have  slipt  away 
And  four :  and  only  this  to  me  is  strange, 
That  only  in  myself  appears  a  change  : 

All  else  that  then  was  seems  the  same  to-day. 

Here  are  the  antique  gownsmen,  worn  and  gray, 
"Codd  Colonel"  and  "Codd  Captain,"  each  old  face, 
Long  passed, seems  still  to  fill  its  wonted  place; 

And  there  behind  me  all  the  young  array 
Stands  as  it  stood  on  that  last  Lenten  morn. 

When  here  with  eyes  all  dim  I  sighed  farewell, 

And  heard  each  old  prayer  like  a  passing  bell ! 
Well — of  those  half-shed  tears  I  think  no  scorn; 

Unchanged  in  this  at  least,  from  boy  to  man, 

That  I  am  heart  and  soul  Carthusian. 




I  LOVE  the  Domus.     Floreat!  though  no  more 
Shall  be  beheld  again  on  Founder's  day 
Those  ancient  faces  and  that  young  array 

In  most  pathetic  union  as  of  yore, 

Meeting  together  where  they  both  adore  : 
Yet  shall  it  flourish  :  'tis  a  green  old  tree 
Deep-rooted  in  dark  earth,  yet  vigorously 

Bidding  its  young  leaves  and  new  branches  soar 
And  find  a  rich  fresh  life  and  freer  course 

Above  these  misty  depths  in  purer  air : 

So  to  be  not  less  reverend  but  more  fair 
By  a  departure  which  is  not  divorce. 

Sternum  floreas,  Domus!  there  and  here; 

Be  greater  there — here  evermore  as  dear. 



We  five  went  blithely  gravewards  on  May-day. 

Gravewards :  but  over  us  all  Heaven  in  smiles 

Broke  through  the  tracery  of  woodland  aisles 
And  gothic  cloisters  green:  for  all  our  way, 
As  through  a  Church  of  Resurrection,  lay, 

Under  one  dome,  through  pillars,  arches,  spires; 

Nor  did  we  miss  the  chant  of  Easter  choirs; 
High  in  the  dome  the  lark,  upon  the  spray 

Linnet,  merle,  mavis ;  last,  one  nightingale 
Sang  his  first  anthem  purely  without  fear — 
As  sure  of  welcome  in  a  poet's  ear — 

Sang  in  the  sunshine  o'er  the  sylvan  pale. 
Then,  passing,  we  fulfilled  our  quest,  and  stood 
By  the  green  graves  above  the  choral  wood. 





Among  the  graves :  but  round  us  the  sweet  air, 
Sun-warmed  and  laden  from  the  Ulac's  breath 
With  Hving  odours,  kissed  the  mounds  of  death; 
Flowers,  diamonding  the  grasses  here  and  there, 
Stirred  to  the  soft  caress,  and  everywhere 

Was  life,  and  warmth,  and  beauty,  and  repose; 
While  in  the  midst  the  slender  steeple  rose, 
A  Mother's  hand  toward  home,  serenely  fair. 

Now  what  thy  victory,  Grave,  or.  Death,  thy  sting 
Unto  her  children  ? — One  we  met,  well  known. 
Worn  with  long  winter  and  aweary  grown; 

Summer  was  mine,  and  four  were  in  their  spring; 
But  all  were  blithe:  and  in  one  shadowy  spot 
Smiled  to  our  smiling  the  Forget-me-not. 




If  I  forget  thee,  O  thou  lowly  Shrine, 
Prefer  thee  not  in  Israel,  let  my  voice 
Forget  the  power  of  song,  no  more  rejoice 

With  reverence  in  the  faculty  divine. 

Thine  am  I  by  first  love,  for  ever  thine. 

Thine  by  a  new-sent  Deacon's  hopes  and  fears, 
A  Priest's  first  consecration:  by  prayers,  tears, 

And  travail  known  to  God.     And  thou  art  mine 
By  the  true  love  of  souls  that  cannot  die : 

Of  some  yet  on  their  journey,  as  of  those 

Whose  tired  forms  round  thee  here  awhile  repose. 
And  wait  the  last  Spring  and  the  open  sky. 

Whose  welcome,  if  I  fail  not  by  the  way, 

I  shall  not  miss  on  the  new  earth's  May-day. 



ST.  Paul's,  haggerston 

Moored  by  a  green  isle  of  Winandermere — 
Listening  the  gentlest  lapping  of  the  wave 
On  the  rock  margin,  and  the  blackbirds'  brave 
Soldierly  antiphons,  afar  and  near, 
And  the  wind's  whispered  evensong — I  hear 
A  sound  beyond,  and  sweeter  as  more  grave 
Than  ever  paradise  of  nature  gave, 
Dear  to  my  heart  of  old,  and  now  more  dear : 
The  roar  of  Londo7i—the  deep  undersong, 

The  myriad  music  of  immortal  souls 
High-couraged,  much-enduring,  'midst  the  long 
Drear  toil  and  gloom  and  weariness.     It  rolls 
Over  me  with  all  power,  for  in  its  tone 
The  hearts  I  love  in  Christ  beat  with  my  own. 




"The desert  shall  rejoice  and  blossom  as  the  rose." — Isaiah  xxxv.  i. 
(Motio  of  All  Saints',  Mission  Church  of  Si.  PauCs,  Haggerston.) 

"The  Lord  shall  comfort  Zion :  He  will  comfort  all  her  waste  places : 
and  He  will  make  her  wilderness  like  Eden,  and  her  desert  like  the 
Garden  of  the  Lord.  Joy  and  gladness  shall  be  found  therein,  thanks- 
giving, and  the  voice  of  melody." — Isaiah  li.  3. 

The  Garden  that  has  been,  and  is  no  more  ! 
And  left  the  world  forlorn  of  bliss  and  bloom  ; 
Naught  but  the  flaming  sword  to  break  the  gloom, 

Guarding  against  all  hope  the  fatal  Door. 

The  Garden  now  !  peaceful  amid  the  roar 

Of  circling  storm — Christ's  Church,  in  face  of  doom 
Revealing  pardon — by  the  desolate  tomb 

Spreading  the  fruits  of  life  in  plenteous  store. 

The  Garden  that  shall  be  !  where  none  shall  know 
Of  noise,  or  gloom,  or  grave,  or  curse  again  • 
But,  'neath  th'  unsetting  Sun  and  gracious  Rain, 

The  Rose  and  Lily  evermore  shall  blow. 

Gardener  of  souls !  dear  Lord,  we  work  for  Thee, 
Sure  of  this  beauteous  Eden  that  shall  be. 



(FEBRUARY    24,    1873) 

' '  From  many  a  nook  imthought  of  there 
Rises  for  that  proud  world  the  saints'  prevailing  prayer." 


"  I  WILL  not  spare  :  within  its  circling  wall 
Are  not  ten  righteous."     So  descending  Hell 
In  flakes  of  fire  on  shrieking  Sodom  fell. 

I  see  descending  Heaven  on  London  fall 

To-night,  in  flakes  of  snow.     No  fears  appal 
Or  eye  or  ear.     Most  fairly  on  the  sight 
Lies  the  great  seamless  garment  of  pure  white. 

A  robe,  like  Christ's,  on  London  robes  it  all. 

And  all  is  still,  save  for  the  watchman's  tread; 
And,  at  the  day's  first  hour,  the  voice  of  time 
Tenderly  solemn  in  a  steeple  chime. 

Like  life's  calm  promise  uttered  o'er  the  dead. 

Such  is  the  scene ;  sure,  for  this  wicked  city 

Christ's  Church  hath  pleaded  well  the  Eternal  pity. 




The  room  is  dark,  and  at  the  door  is  Death ; 

Sightless,  and  marred  beyond  all  knowledge,  there 
His  victims  waiting  lie :  their  labouring  breath 

Makes  the  sole  sound,  and  taints  the  heavy  air. 
What  comfort? — Ah,  my  God!  who  doubt  Thy  truth, 

And  mock  our  Easter  hope,  should  enter  here, 
And  see  Thy  Word  in  its  immortal  youth, 

Serene  and  strong  in  mastery  of  fear. 
Without,  the  changed  season  smiles  and  sings. 

For  winter's  tyranny  is  overpast: 
Within,  is  risen  with  healing  in  His  wings 

The  Sun,  whose  sky  no  death-clouds  overcast : 
There,  Spring-tide's  promise  of  regenerate  earth  ; 
Here,  Easter  sunshine  of  the  second  birth. 





A  LITTLE  while,  O  Death,  a  little  while. 

Then  may'st  thou  enter  in  and  make  an  end — 
An  end  of  sorrows — enter  with  the  smile 

Thou  usest  when  thou  comest  as  a  friend. 
A  little  while :  for  meet  it  is  and  right 

That  first  we  feast  together— we  who  stay 
They  that  be  passing— so  to  part  at  night 

Foretasting  union  in  the  new  near  day. 
The  woful  scene,  the  sickening  air,  the  gloom. 

Mar  not  this  Feast :  round  this  poor  Altar-board 
Good  angels  gather,  and  account  this  room 

A  Gate  of  Heaven  by  Presence  of  the  Lord. 
A  little  while,  O  Death  !  then  set  them  free 
To  find  His  Face  beyond  this  veil  and  thee. 


Within,  the  sounds  were  all  of  praise  and  prayer, 
The  old  alternate  music  of  the  soul, 
Triumphant,  tender :  now  the  lofty  roll 

Of  glad  thanksgiving  shook  the  sacred  air: 

Now  the  pathetic  voice  of  need  and  care 
Wherewith  in  reverent  trust  the  children  cry 
Unto  a  loving  Father  here  most  nigh, 

Albeit  not  far  from  each  one  everywhere. 

Without,  the  sounds  were  all  of  shame  and  sin : 
The  pleasure-seeker's  laugh,  the  drunkard's  song, 
The  vendor's  shout  amid  a  careless  throng. 

By  turns  broke  softly  on  the  ears  within ; 

And  they  who  heard  did  more  devoutly  pray, 
"Lord,  arm  Thy  children  for  the  evil  day." 




So  must  it  be  iviihout,  while  Time  shall  be, 
The  evil  world  of  revelry  and  strife, 
Alluring  or  assailing  every  life 
Hidden  with  Christ  in  God,  perpetually 
Shall  rave  around  it  like  a  troubled  sea. 
So  may  it  be  within !  till  Time  shall  end, 
The  holy  Church  till  her  dear  Lord  descend 
Drowning  that  discord  in  her  harmony : 
Blest  harmony  of  souls  that  love  and  long  ! 
The  deep  sweet  minor  of  her  lowly  prayer 
Rising  beyond  the  world  and  mingling  there 
With  the  full  swell  of  her  majestic  song. — 

Child!  let  thy  heart  through  all  the  blatant  days 
Keep  such  an  inner  shrine  of  prayer  and  praise. 


Dear  Arnold,  life  is  less  by  loss  of  thee: 

Less  full,  less  jocund.     Hours  with  thee  sped  by 
On  wings  of  wit,  or  wealth  of  sympathy, 

Or  talk  on  truths  of  height  and  depth,  yet  free 

Ever  from  cant  or  affectation.     We, 

In  our  stern  East-End  life,  grew  bright  of  eye 
And  cheerier  at  thy  comings  !     Smile  or  sigh 

Fitted  thy  various  converse  equally, 

Sweet-hearted  friend  !     Alas,  that  now  no  more 
The  arm-chair  or  the  pulpit  will  be  filled 
With  that  kind  presence — keen  attention  thrilled 

By  tales  of  "  men  and  cities,"  or  the  lore 

Of  those  book-depths  from  which  thou  knew'st  so  well 

To  mix  for  mind  and  heart  an  cenomel. 



Not  sparse  of  friends  the  world  has  been  to  me 
By  grace  of  God  ;  sweetness  and  light  to  life 
Their  love  has  given ;  many  a  stormy  strife, 

Many  a  pulseless  torpor,  on  my  sea, 

Through  them — their  presence  or  their  memory — 
Have  been  or  stilled  or  quickened;  and  to  thee 
My  Dog,  the  tribute,  as  the  term,  is  due. 

My  Friend!  not  least  of  all  dear,  near,  and  true 

These  seventeen  years — and  through  the  years  to  be 
Sure  in  my  heart  of  immortality. 
Must  this  be  all  ?    F  the  great  Day  of  the  Lord, 

Shall  aught  that  is  of  good  and  beauty  now 
Be  missing  ?     Shall  not  each  gift  be  restored  ? 
Paul  says  "the  whole  creation"— why  not  thou? 






Most  strange ! 
Most  queer, — although  most  excellent  a  change  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house,  ye  disappear ! 
My  fettered  thoughts  have  won  a  wider  range, 

And,  like  my  legs,  are  free ; 
No  longer  huddled  up  so  pitiably : 
Free  now  to  pry  and  probe,  and  peep  and  peer, 

And  make  these  mysteries  out. 
Shall  a  free-thinking  chicken  live  in  doubt  ? 
For  now  in  doubt  undoubtedly  I  am : 

This  problem's  very  heavy  on  my  mind. 
And  I'm  not  one  to  either  shirk  or  sham : 
I  won't  be  blinded,  and  I  won't  be  blind ! 
Now,  let  me  see ; 
Firsts  I  would  know  how  did  I  get  in  there  ? 

Then,  where  was  I  of  yore? 
Besides,  why  didn't  I  get  out  before  ? 


Bless  me ! 
Here  are  three  puzzles  (out  of  plenty  more) 
Enough  to  give  me  pip  upon  the  brain ! 

But  let  me  think  again. 
How  do  I  know  I  ever  was  inside  ? 
Now  I  reflect,  it  is,  I  do  maintain, 
Less  than  my  reason,  and  beneath  my  pride 

To  think  that  I  could  dwell 
In  such  a  paltry  miserable  cell 

As  that  old  shell. 
Of  course  I  couldn't !     How  could  /  have  lain, 
Body  and  beak  and  feathers,  legs  and  wings, 
And  my  deep  heart's  sublime  imaginings, 

In  there? 

I  meet  the  notion  with  profound  disdain ; 

It's  quite  incredible ;  since  I  declare 

(And  I'm  a  chicken  that  you  can't  deceive) 

What  I  canU  u?idersfand  I  wojiH  believe. 

Where  did  I  come  from,  then  ?     Ah  !  where,  indeed  ? 

This  is  a  riddle  monstrous  hard  to  read. 

I  have  it !     Why,  of  course. 
All  things  are  moulded  by  some  plastic  force 
Out  of  some  atoms  somewhere  up  in  space, 
Fortuitously  concurrent  anyhow  : — 

There,  now  ! 
That's  plain  as  is  the  beak  upon  my  face. 


What's  that  I  hear  ? 
My  mother  cackling  at  me !     Just  her  way, 
So  prejudiced  and  ignorant  /  say ; 
So  far  behind  the  wisdom  of  the  day  ! 

What's  old  I  canU  revere. 
Hark  at  her.     "  You're  a  little  fool,  my  dear. 

That's  quite  as  plain,  alack  ! 
As  is  the  piece  of  shell  upon  your  back  ! " 
How  bigoted  !  upon  my  back,  indeed  ! 

I  don't  believe  it's  there: 
For  I  can't  see  it ;  and  I  do  declare, 

For  all  her  fond  deceivin', 
What  I  cati^t  see  I  never  will  believe  in! 



What  shall  I  be  ? 

I'd  like  to  be  a  soldier,  strong  and  tall, 
Like  Grandpapa,  drawn  in  the  picture  here  ; 
And  be  the  first  to  hear  the  trumpet's  call, 
And  be  the  first  to  scale  the  castle  wall. 

But  then,  you  see, 
The  worst  of  it  is  this,  Mamma,  poor  dear — 
Just  because  these  brave  fighters  sometimes  fall- 
Won't  hear  about  this  soldiering  at  all ! 

Papa's  a  clergyman. 
And  nobody's  one-half  as  good  as  he, 
Nor  ever  was,  /  think,  since  time  began ; 
No,  and  I  don't  believe  will  ever  be: 

I  know  Mamma  thinks  so ; 
And  that's  the  reason  partly,  I  dare  say, 
She  hopes  with  all  her  heart  her  boy  some  day 
Will  lead  good  people  in  his  father's  way. 

And  when  I  tell  her  "  No, 
I  want  to  be  a  soldier  of  the  Queen," 
She  says  (and  dear  old  Auntie  just  the  same) 


A   BOY'S   REVERIE  227 

"That  there's  a  soldier's  service  nobler  far, 

With  surer  triumph  and  a  grander  fame, 

Than  any  fighting  in  an  earthly  war ; 

Great  battles  that  no  eye  has  ever  seen 

'Gainst  foes  more  fierce  than  ever  men  have  been ; 

And  that  a  clergyman  does  wear  a  sword 

As  captain  in  the  armies  of  the  Lord." 

I  think  I  know  what  she  and  Auntie  mean, 
And  like  to  hear  them  tell  of  it ;  but  still 
I  should  so  like  a  sword  that  I  can  see, 
Like  Grandpapa's,  and  wield  it  in  my  hand. 
Just  as  he's  painted  here  upon  the  hill, 
While  all  the  soldiers  charge  at  his  command ; 
That's  just  how  I  should  like  to  look,  so  grand  ! 

Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  I  don't  know  what  to  do ! 
I  shouldn't  worry,  if  I  only  knew ; 
But  now  it's  quite  a  burden  on  my  mind. 
Because  in  both  directions  I'm  inclined. 
I'd  like  to  be  a  good  man,  like  Papa, 
And,  best  of  all,  it  would  so  please  Mamma, 
But  then,  I  want  to  fight  like  Grandpapa. 

I'm  in  a  regular  fix : 
Nurse  says  that  I  must  wait,  I'm  only  six, 
And  this  time  ten  years  will  be  time  enough 
To  make  a  fuss  about  what  I  shall  be. 
I  don't  care  what  she  says,  because,  you  see. 
Every  one  knows  old  women  talk  such  stuff. 


There  !  I  declare  she's  calling  me  again. 
The  cross  old  thing  ! — hark  at  her  overhead  : 
"  Come,  Master  Johnnie,  time  you  were  asleep  ! " 

One  thing  is  very  plain, 
When  I'm  a  man  (oh,  how  the  time  does  creep ! 
I  wish  it  could  be  done  as  soon  as  said !) 
Unless  I  choose,  I'll  tiever  go  to  bed  ! 


DEDICATED   TO    F.  C.   B.    AND    K.  L.  B. 

"  Not  her  name,  but  Florence,"  such  is 
Katie's  comment  on  "  the  Duchess," 
When  she  hears  your  grace's  title 
Given  you  in  due  requital 
Of  an  aspect  most  serenely 
Soft  and  placid,  yet  so  queenly. 
From  your  little  three-years'  stature, 
That  one  cannot  doubt  that  nature 
Has  decreed  by  certain  touches 
To  design  at  least  a  Duchess  ! 

"  When  and  why  ?  "  does  Katie  ask  me, 
Quite  resolved  to  take  to  task  me. 
And  to  make  me  give  a  reason 
For  this  nominal  high  treason. 
Ere  she  will  acknowledge  duly 
That  you  are  "  the  Duchess  "  truly  ! 

Listen,  Katie,  listen  other. 
Each  and  every,  sister,  brother, 
While  I  tell  you  all  the  history. 
This  aristocratic  mystery  ! 


On  a  day  you  should  remember 
In  a  holiday  December, 
While  the  gale  without  blew  madly, 
And  the  hearth-side  firelight  gladly 
Smiled  to  scorn  the  winter  wailing. 
While  we  sat  around  it  stilly — 
Elders  all  but  May  and  Willie— 
On  a  sudden  in  came  sailing 
(Like  a  white  swan  on  the  waters 
With  two  dingy  cygnet  daughters, 
Or  like  queen  through  fabled  gateway 
Closed  in  fear  behind  her  straightway, 
'Twixt  two  griffins,  by  some  charming 
Kept  in  durance  from  all  harming), 
You,  my  Florence — a  white  figure, 
'Twixt  two  cats,  and  not  much  bigger 
Than  the  beasties  you  were  bearing 
With  a  baby's  easy  daring. 
Little  fingers  could  not  hold  them, 
So  the  whole  arm  must  enfold  them 
(Arms  and  fingers  minus  mittens), 
These  two  taloned  tabby  kittens  ! 
Big  as  cats,  of  savage  feature. 
Each  a  grim  and  gruesome  creature. 
Had  /  touched  them,  they'd  have  scratched  me 
Or,  in  will  at  least,  despatched  me ; 
Or,  if  fearful  more  than  frightening. 
Have  despatched  themselves  like  lightning 
From  my  arms'  unlovely  prison, 
Mewing  wild,  "  I  isn't  his'n  !  " 

THE   REASON   WHY  231 

But,  your  Grace  !  by  all  the  Graces  ! 
There  they  hung  with  charmed  faces, 
From  your  wee  white  arms  depending, 
Heads  and  tails  together  blending. 
Troubled,  doubtless,  if  not  tortured. 
But,  as  apples  hang  in  orchard. 
There  they  hung,  nor  scratched  nor  bit  you, 
Spit  nor  swore,  nor  hurt  a  whit  you  ! 

Scratched  jj^i?^/!,  hitj>ou?    Just  as  soon  a 
Lion  would  have  bitten  Una ! 
Spit  or  swore  a.t  you  ?     Much  rather 
They'd  have  spit  at  Tim  their  father, 
Or  have  sworn  at  Tib  their  mother, 
Or  have  eaten  one  another, 
Like  the  cats  who  at  Kilkenny 
Found  each  other  one  too  many  ! 

Ah,  my  darling  !  at  this  vision, 
'Spite  the  prosy  world's  derision, 
I  confess,  so  did  it  win  me, 
The  poor  poet  spirit  in  me 
Rose  and  spread  its  folded  pinion. 
With  a  moment's  sweet  dominion 
In  the  regions  sunny,  airy, 
Of  far  Eld  and  farther  Faery, 
And  in  you  there  passed  before  me — 
Such  a  charm  and  spell  was  o'er  me — 
Those  who  formed  the  darUng  fancies 
Of  our  childhood's  blithe  romances. 


Said  I  so  ?     Not  I  !     I  tumbled 
Back  to  earth  and  merely  mumbled, 
"  Look,  her  grace  and  glamour  such  is, 

'Tis  no  baby,  but  a  duchess  ! " 


There,  my  pet,  you  have  the  reason 
For  this  nominal  high  treason  ! 



Kate  to  others,  but  my  Kitty  ! 
Dear,  my  precious,  sweet,  my  pretty. 
It  were  sorrowfullest  pity 
If  your  singer  sent  no  ditty 
Home  to  greet  you :  not  a  whit  he 
Cares  for  critics :  not  a  bit  he 
Loves  his  leisure,  nor  can  sit  he 
Here  in  field,  or  home  in  city. 
Lazy,  till,  or  weak  or  witty 
Verse  of  oddest  ends  has  writ  he. 
With  all  rhyme-words  that  can  fit  he. 
All  the  word-marks  that  can  hit  he, 
All  the  song-threads  that  can  knit  he : 
No  rhyme-rummage  will  remit  he, 
No  jing-jangle  quest  will  quit  he. 
Till  is  wrought  the  wondrous  ditty. 
Fond  or  foolish,  weak  or  witty. 
Spoil  of  those  sky-blue  banditti. 
Lovely,  loving  eyes  of  Kitty ; 
Yours,  my  precious,  yours  my  pretty, 
Kate  to  others,  but  my  Kitty  ! 



WRITTEN    IN    A   CHILd's    BIBLE 

Beautiful  truths  may  lurk  in  secret  signs  ; 

A  Lovely  name  lies  hid  in  these  plain  lines. 

WhAt's  in  a  name  ?     Ah,  much  !  in  this  for  thee 

I     fiNd  the  truth  of  thy  soul's  history. 

Dear    Child,  it  was,  is,  may  it  ever  be ! 

I      watcH  in  love  and  hope,  nor  cease  to  pray 

That      thE  clear  dawn  may  grow  to  perfect  day. 



An  end,  an  end  !     What  hath  an  end  ? 

The  base,  the  mean,  the  small: 
These  naught  can  save,  these  naught  defend. 

Doom  claims  them  all. 

Hath  life  an  end  ?     Life  hath  an  end, 

The  creature  of  to-day  ; 
This  none  may  keep,  this  none  defend, 

Meet  for  decay. 

An  end,  an  end  !     What  hath  no  end, 
By  right  of  strength  and  youth, 

— Which  all  may  hold  and  all  defend  ? 
Immortal  Truth. 

Hath  life  an  end  ?     Life  hath  no  end. 

Earth-born,  yet  born  above : 
This  man  may  keep  and  God  defend, 

The  life  of  Love. 






"  The  Church  of  God,  which  He  hath  purchased  with  His  own  Blood," 

Acts  xx.  28. 

The  Church's  one  Foundation 

Is  Jesus  Christ  her  Lord : 
She  is  His  new  creation 

By  water  and  the  Word ; 
From  heaven  He  came  and  sought  her 

To  be  His  holy  Bride, 
With  His  own  Blood  He  bought  her, 

And  for  her  life  He  died. 

Elect  from  every  nation, 

Yet  one  o'er  all  the  earth. 
Her  charter  of  salvation 

One  Lord,  one  Faith,  one  Birth ; 
One  Holy  Name  she  blesses, 

Partakes  one  Holy  Food, 
And  to  one  Hope  she  presses, 

With  every  grace  endued. 

240  HYMNS 

Though  with  a  scornful  wonder 

Men  see  her  sore  opprest, 
By  schisms  rent  asunder, 

By  heresies  distrest ; 
Yet  saints  their  watch  are  keeping, 

Their  cry  goes  up,  "  How  long  ?  " 
And  soon  the  night  of  weeping 

Shall  be  the  morn  of  song. 

Mid  toil  and  tribulation, 

And  tumult  of  her  war, 
She  waits  the  consummation 

Of  peace  for  evermore ; 
Till  with  the  vision  glorious 

Her  longing  eyes  are  blest, 
And  the  great  Church  victorious 

Shall  be  the  Church  at  rest. 

Yet  she  on  earth  hath  union 

With  God  the  Three  in  One, 
And  mystic  sweet  communion 

With  those  whose  rest  is  won: 
Oh,  happy  ones  and  holy  ! 

Lord,  give  us  grace  that  we 
Like  them,  the  meek  and  lowly, 

On  high  may  dwell  with  Thee  !     Amen. 


"But  let  us,  who  are  of  the  day,  be  sober,  putting  on  the  breast- 
plate of  faith  and  love ;  and  for  an  helmet,  the  hope  of  salvation." 

I  Thess.  v.  8. 

The  old  year's  long  campaign  is  o'er  : 

Behold  a  new  begun ; 
Not  yet  is  closed  the  Holy  War 

Not  yet  the  triumph  won : 
Out  of  his  still  and  deep  repose 

We  hear  the  old  year  say  : — 
"  Go  forth  again  to  meet  your  foes, 

Ye  children  of  the  day  !  " 

*'  Go  forth  !     Firm  Faith  in  every  heart, 

Bright  Hope  on  every  helm, 
Through  that  shall  pierce  no  fiery  dart, 

And  this  no  fear  o'erwhelm  ! 
Go  in  the  Spirit  and  the  might 

Of  Him  Who  led  the  way ; 
Close  with  the  legions  of  the  night, 

Ye  children  of  the  day  ! " 
K  241 



So  forth  we  go  to  meet  the  strife, 

We  will  not  fear  nor  fly  ! 
Love  we  the  holy  warrior's  life, 

His  death  we  hope  to  die  ! 
We  slumber  not,  that  charge  in  view, 

'•  Toil  on  while  toil  ye  may, 
Then  night  shall  be  no  night  to  you. 

Ye  children  of  the  day  ! " 

Lord  God,  our  Glory,  Three  in  One, 

Thine  own  sustain,  defend  ! 
And  give,  though  dim  this  earthly  sun, 

Thy  true  light  to  the  end ; 
Till  morning  tread  the  darkness  down. 

And  night  be  swept  away. 
And  infinite  sweet  triumph  crown 

Thy  children  of  the  day  !     Amen. 




"Her  foundations  are  upon  the  holy  hills:  the  Lord  loveth  the  gates 
of  Zion  more  than  all  the  dwellings  of  Jacob." — Ps.  Ixxxvii.  i,  2. 

"God  is  in  the  midst  of  her,  therefore  shall  she  not  be  removed: 
God  shall  help  her,  and  that  right  early." — Ps.  xlvi.  5. 

"  If  I  forget  thee,  O  Jerusalem,  let  my  right  hand  forget  her 
cunning." — Ps.  cxxxvii.  5. 

Round  the  Sacred  City  gather 

Egypt,  Edom,  Babylon ; 
All  the  warring  hosts  of  error, 

Sworn  against  her,  are  as  one : 
Vain  the  leaguer  !  her  foundations 

Are  upon  the  holy  hills, 
And  the  love  of  the  Eternal 

All  her  stately  temple  fills. 

Get  thee,  watchman,  to  the  rampart ! 

Gird  thee,  warrior,  with  thy  sword  ! 
And  be  strong  as  ye  remember 

In  your  midst  is  God  the  Lord  : 
Like  the  night-mists  from  the  valley. 

These  shall  vanish,  one  by  one, 
Egypt's  malice,  Edom's  envy. 

And  the  hate  of  Babylon. 


244  HYMNS 

But  be  true,  ye  sons  and  daughters, 

Lest  the  peril  be  within  ; 
Watch  to  prayer,  lest  in  your  slumber 

Stealthy  foemen  enter  in  ; 
Safe  the  mother  and  the  children 

If  their  will  and  love  be  strong, 
While  their  loyal  hearts  go  singing 

Prayer  and  praise  for  battle-song. 

Church  of  God  !  if  we  forget  thee, 

Let  His  blessing  fail  our  hand ; 
When  our  love  shall  not  prefer  thee. 

Let  His  love  forget  our  land — 
Nay  !  our  memory  shall  be  steadfast 

Though  in  storm  the  mountains  shake, 
And  our  love  is  love  for  ever. 

For  it  is  for  Jesus'  sake. 

Church  of  Jesus  !     His  thy  Banner 

And  thy  Banner's  awful  Sign : 
By  His  passion  and  His  glory 

Thou  art  His  and  He  is  thine: 
From  the  Hill  of  His  Redemption 

Flows  thy  sacramental  tide : 
From  the  Hill  of  His  Ascension 

Flows  the  grace  of  God  thy  Guide. 

Yea:  thou  Church  of  God  the  Spirit  ! 

His  Society  Divine, 
His  the  living  Word  thou  keepest. 

His  thy  Apostolic  line. 


Ancient  prayer  and  song  liturgic, 
Creeds  that  change  not  to  the  end, 

As  His  gift  we  have  received  them, 
As  His  charge  we  will  defend. 

Alleluia,  Alleluia, 

To  the  Father,  Spirit,  Son, 
In  Whose  will  the  Church  at  warfare 

With  the  Church  at  rest  is  one : 
So  to  Thee  we  sing  in  union, 

God  in  earth  and  Heav'n  adored, 
Alleluia,  Alleluia, 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy  Lord.     Amen. 


Unchanging  God,  hear  from  eternal  Heav'n, 
We  plead  Thy  gifts  of  grace,  for  ever  given, 
Thy  call,  without  repentance,  calling  still. 
The  sure  election  of  Thy  sovereign  will. 

Out  of  our  faith  in  Thee,  who  canst  not  lie, 
Out  of  our  heart's  desire,  goes  up  our  cry, 
From  hope's  sweet  vision  of  the  thing  to  be, 
From  love  to  those  who  still  are  loved  by  Thee. 

Bring  Thy  beloved  back,  Thine  Israel, 
Thine  own  elect  who  from  Thy  favour  fell, 
But  not  from  Thine  election  ! — Oh  forgive. 
Speak  but  the  word,  and,  lo  !  the  dead  shall  live. 

Father  of  mercies  !  these  the  long-astray, 
These  in  soul-blindness  now  the  far-away, 
These  are  not  aliens,  but  Thy  sons  of  yore, 
Oh,  by  Thy  Fatherhood,  restore,  restore  ! 

Breathe  on  Thy  Church,  that  it  may  greet  the  day, 
Stir  up  her  will  to  toil,  and  teach,  and  pray, 
Till  Zionward  again  salvation  come. 
And  all  her  outcast  children  are  at  home. 



Triune  Jehovah,  Thine  the  grace  and  power, 
Thine  all  the  work,  its  past,  its  future  hour, 
O  Thou,  Who  failest  not,  Thy  gifts  fulfil. 
And  crown  the  calling  of  thy  changeless  will. 



"Come  over  into  Macedonia  and  help  us  !" — Acts  xvi.  9. 

Through  midnight  gloom  from  Macedon 

The  cry  of  myriads  as  of  one, 

The  voiceful  silence  of  despair, 

Is  eloquent  in  awful  prayer ; 

The  soul's  exceeding  bitter  cry, 

*'  Come  o'er  and  help  us  or  we  die." 

How  mournfully  it  echoes  on, 
For  half  the  world  is  Macedon  ! 
These  brethren  to  their  brethren  call. 
And  by  the  Love  which  loved  them  all. 
And  by  the  whole  world's  Life  they  cry, 
"  O  ye  that  live,  behold  we  die  ! " 

By  other  sounds  our  ears  are  won 
Than  that  which  wails  from  Macedon ; 
The  roar  of  gain  is  round  us  rolled, 
Or  we  unto  ourselves  are  sold, 
And  cannot  list  the  alien  cry 
"  O  hear  and  help  us  lest  we  die  ! " 

MISSIONS   TO   THE   HEATHEN         249 

Yet  with  that  cry  from  Macedon 
The  very  car  of  Christ  rolls  on ! 
"I  come:  who  would  abide  My  day, 
In  yonder  wilds  prepare  My  way ! 
My  voice  is  crying  in  their  cry 
Help  ye  the  dying  lest  ye  die  ! " 

O  once,  for  men,  of  man  the  Son, 
Yea,  Thine  the  cry  from  Macedon  ! 
Oh  by  the  Kingdom  and  the  Power 
And  Glory  of  Thine  advent  hour. 
Wake  heart  and  will  to  hear  their  cry, 
Help  us  to  help  them  lest  we  die ! 

Yet  fair  the  hope  that  speeds  us  on 

With  psalms  of  praise  for  Macedon ! 

Thy  blessing  given,  Thy  promise  bright. 

Are  earnest  sweet  of  morning  light. 

Till  "  Alleluia  "  be  the  cry 

Of  souls  that  live  and  shall  not  die  !     Amen. 

A    HYMN    IN    MEMORY    OF    ST.    ALBAN 

DEDICATED   TO    A.    C.    S.    AND    M.    S.    S. 

"  Egregium  Albanum  foecunda  Britannia  profert." 

Venantius  Fortunatus  (Fifth  Century). 

"  Thus  was  Alban  tried, 
England's  first  Martyr,  whom  no  threats  could  shake  ; 
Self-offered  victim  ;  for  his  friend  he  died, 
And  for  the  Faith." — Wordsworth. 

England,  by  thine  own  Saint  Alban, 

Put  thy  Christian  heart  to  school : 
Learn  to  sacrifice  and  suffer 

By  thy  Proto-Martyr's  rule. 
Life  in  Christ  is  stern  and  selfless, 

Gentle  though  it  be  and  bright : 
Life  in  Christ  is  dying  with  Him, 
Though  in  sweet  and  living  light. 
England,  by  thine  own  Saint  Alban, 
Put  thy  Christian  heart  to  school: 
Learn  to  sacrifice  and  suffer 
By  thy  Proto-Martyr's  rule. 


Meteor-like  athwart  the  darkness 

Flashes  still  the  Signal  Cross  ; 
Still  like  trumpet  on  the  night-wind 

Sounds  the  summons  unto  loss ; 
Yet  how  blessed  is  the  losing 

And  how  stately  is  the  war: 
And  how  beautiful  the  ending 

In  the  bliss  for  evermore  ! 

See  !  thy  hero,  prudence  scorning, 

All  for  noble  pity  dares : 
Finds  the  priest  he  saved  his  prophet, 

Meets  "an  angel  unawares  ": 
Sits  as  at  the  feet  of  Jesus, 

Soon  is  to  His  Laver  led: 
Then  himself  as  on  an  altar 

Offers  in  his  Teacher's  stead. 

"I  am  Christ's:  I  therefore  suffer: 

I  am  Christ's:  I  therefore  die: 
I  am  Christ's:  so  I  am  happy. 

And  my  life  is  His  on  high  " ; — 
Thus  he  faced  the  Roman's  torture. 

Youth,  wealth,  honour  sacrificed, 
Losing  thankfully  the  whole  world 

That  he  might  be  found  in  Christ. 

Primal  Hero-Saint  and  Soldier  ! 

Still  thy  story  speeds  us  on : 
Though,  since  thou  didst  bravely  witness, 

Twice  eight  hundred  years  have  gone. 

252  HYMNS 

Lord,  Who  gavest  him  to  England, 
Grace,  like  his,  to  England  give — 

Grace  to  bear  Thy  cross  with  gladness, 
Grace  to  die  that  we  may  live. 

England,  by  thine  own  Saint  Alban, 
Put  thy  Christian  heart  to  school : 

Learn  to  sacrifice  and  suffer 

By  thy  Proto-Martyr's  rule.     Amen. 



"The  Diamond  Wedding  of  the  Queen  with  her  people." — Times 
Leader,  November  loth,  1896. 

God  of  supreme  dominion, 

From  Whom  all  power  has  birth, 
Whose  praise  on  eagle  pinion 

O'ersweeps  Thine  Heav'n  and  earth: 
We  lift  one  voice  before  Thee 

From  many  a  land  and  race, 
And  with  one  heart  adore  Thee 

For  threescore  years  of  grace. 

Here,  by  the  barriers  olden 

With  front  of  silver  sheen — 
There,  from  the  Islands  golden — 

From  Orient  lands  between — 
From  isles  of  beauty  sparkling 

The  summer  seas  among — 
From  tracts  with  winter  darkling — 

Goes  up  the  choral  song. 

These  years,  in  tale  excelling 

All  years  of  olden  reign. 
Their  twofold  story  telling 

Of  blended  joy  and  pain — 

254  HYMNS 

With  equal  grace  upon  her. 
Like  twain  wings  of  Thy  Dove — 

Have  crowned  the  Head  we  honour: 
Have  blessed  the  Heart  we  love. 

Comes  with  prophetic  morning, 

With  Peace  afar  and  near. 
With  Hope  our  hills  adorning. 

This  Diamond  Marriage  Year  ! 
And  hearts  with  praise  o'erflowing. 

And  souls  that  inly  pray, 
Greet  Queen  and  Nation  going 

Still  on  their  stately  way. 

Praise  for  Thy  long  sustaining, 

That  held  her  firm  in  aim 
Ever  to  keep  unwaning 

Our  fair  ancestral  fame ; 
Praise  for  the  sweet  compassion 

Which  makes  the  wide  world  own 
That  Love's  divinest  fashion 

Is  set  from  England's  throne. 

Lord,  as  her  realm  lies  truly 

'Neath  an  unsetting  sun. 
As  earthly  meed  all  duly 

Her  stainless  life  hath  won: 
So  when  at  last  before  Thee 

She  lays  her  kingdom  down, 
Christ's  One  Light  be  her  glory, 

Christ's  Merit  be  her  crown.     Amen. 


Eastward,  ever  eastward, 

Dark  or  light  the  way, 
Pressing  towards  the  promise, 

We  salute  the  day. 
O'er  the  mountains  yonder 

Shines  the  orient  gleam, 
Yonder  sweetest  voices 

Call  across  the  stream. 

Eastward,  ever  eastward, 
Dark  or  light  the  way. 

Pressing  towards  the  promise. 
We  salute  the  day. 

To  those  border  mountains 

Lift  we  then  our  eyes  : 
Thence  our  help  smiles  on  us, 

There  is  set  our  Prize — 
There,  like  sound  of  trumpet, 

Clear,  and  loud,  and  long, 
Easter  splendour  streaming 

Greets  our  Easter  song. 


256  HYMNS 

Flow  life's  river  cheerly — 

Flow  it  dark  and  chill — 
O'er  its  changeful  waters 

Constant  look  we  still. 
Clear  across  them  beckons 

The  unchanging  shore, 
Where  the  life  and  beauty 

Are  for  evermore. 

Saints  and  angels  call  us — 

Angels  of  the  height, 
Who  at  th'  Incarnation 

Sang  the  new-born  light : 
Saints  gone  on  before  us, 

Past  our  life  forlorn, 
Who  in  Eden's  vigil 

Wait  the  greater  Morn. 

Death  of  woful  winter  ! 

Dawn  of  happy  spring  ! 
Listen,  all  the  woodlands 

Of  the  wide  world  ring  ! 
Look,  the  waste  lands  blossom 

'Neath  the  gracious  rain. 
And  all  beauty  buried 

Takes  its  life  again  ! 

HYMN   FOR  THE   LORD^S   DAY        257 

Oh,  the  end  of  patience, 

And  the  dose  of  strife  ! 
Oh,  the  joy  of  morning, 

And  the  gift  of  Ufe  ! 
Oh,  the  grace,  the  glory. 

Of  the  great  Reward  ! 
Oh,  the  blessed  Vision, 

Jesus  Christ  our  Lord  ! 

Eastward,  ever  eastward, 

Dark  or  light  the  way. 
Pressing  towards  the  promise, 

We  salute  the  day.     Amen. 


Thou  Who  hast  charged  Thine  elder  sons, 

In  Thy  great  Church's  school 
To  teach  and  tend  Thy  little  ones, 

And  in  wise  love  to  rule : 
Here  may  they  loyal  witness  bear, 

As  those  whom  Thou  hast  sent. 
By  Love  inspired,  kept  pure  by  Prayer, 

Made  strong  by  Sacrament. 

And  ever  here.  Lord  Christ,  be  seen 

Standing  beneath  Thy  Rood, 
Stoled  in  Thy  raiment,  white  and  clean, 

A  priestly  sisterhood ; 
Which  in  Thy  Church's  order  sure 

May  in  the  dark  world  shine 
Like  her,  the  wise,  the  brave,  the  pure. 

Their  own  Saint  Katharine. 

'  Adapted  from  a  hymn  written  for  the  Church  Trahiing  College  of 
St.  Katharine,  Tottenham. 



Teacher  of  teachers,  only  Guide, 

True  learning's  only  spring, 
O  Holy  Ghost,  with  each  abide, 

All  truth  interpreting ; 
From  light  to  light  of  mind  and  soul. 

And  pure,  devoted  will. 
Lead  on  Thy  learners  to  the  goal 

Of  wisdom's  holy  hill. 

Lead  on,  O  Lord — Love,  Grace,  and  Might — 

Lead  on  through  toil  and  prayer ; 
So  worship  shall  make  labour  light. 

And  hope  ennoble  care ; 
So  they  adoring  while  they  toil, 

Their  guerdon  may  foresee. 
When  at  Thy  feet  they  lay  the  spoil 

Of  souls  they  trained  for  Thee.     Amen. 



Lord  Christ,  my  Master  dear, 
Naught  have  I  that  is  mine ; 

Body  and  mind  and  soul, 
All  that  I  am  is  Thine. 

Mine  office  is  from  Thee : 

Not  only  for  mine  hour, 
But  for  Thine  own  great  day, 

And  by  Thy  mighty  power. 

Through  Thine  own  Church  it  comes, 
From  Thine  Ascension  Day, 

By  Thine  ordaining  word 
Which  cannot  pass  away. 

So  do  I  love  Thy  call ! 

So  great  and  sweet  to  me 
That  word  which  makes  me  sure 

That  I  may  speak  for  Thee 

HYMN   FOR   CHURCH   WORKERS       261 

How  poor  am  I  in  love, 

In  patience,  and  in  power, 
Yet  more  than  I  can  be 

Is,  by  that  word,  my  dower  ! 

Power,  patience,  love,  are  mine. 
From  Thee,  my  Priest  on  high. 

If  I  in  faith  and  prayer 
Mine  office  magnify. 

For,  then,  I  lose  myself! 

I  know  it  is  not  mine ; 
Thereon  I  see  the  mark 

Which  makes  it  wholly  Thine: 

Thy  Cross,  Incarnate  Lord  ! 

The  measure  of  Thy  love, 
Of  Thy  great  power  below. 

Of  Thy  full  bliss  above.     Amen. 


"IN   THEE" 



"Christ  the  Power  of  God,  and  the  Wisdom  of  God.   ...  Of  Him 
are  ye  in  Christ  Jesus." — i  Cor.  i.  24  and  30. 

Christ,  the  Wisdom  and  the  Power! 
From  our  labour's  fleeting  hour 
To  that  timeless  age  of  bliss 
Which  shall  crown  the  toil  of  this, 
Grant  that  all  our  life  may  be 
Hidden  and  revealed  "in  Thee." 

That  our  work  may  be  divine 
Seek  we  not  our  own  but  Thine  ; 
Lost  to  self  and  found  "  in  Thee," 
Find  we  sweet  Humility, 
Zeal  by  reverent  Love  refined, 
True  Devotion's  single  mind. 


So  "  in  Thee  "  we  shall  be  strong, 
Seem  the  labour  light  or  long  ; 
And,  though  clouds  of  self  and  sin 
Darken  round  us  and  within. 
So  not  dimly  shall  we  see 
Light  to  lighten  all  "  in  Thee." 

Thus  "  in  Thee,"  O  Wisdom,  wise, 
May  we  touch  the  blinded  eyes. 
Turn  the  steps  that  vainly  roam 
Back  to  happiness  and  home. 
And  in  sacred  waters  sweet 
Wash  Thy  young  disciples'  feet. 

Thus  "  in  Thee,"  O  Power,  we  go 
Through  Thy  Church's  war  below, 
In  Thy  panoply  alway 
Steadfast  through  the  evil  day ; 
Troubled  ever,  not  distrest, 
Moving  to  Thy  Church  at  rest. 

"  In  Thee  "  now,  and  "  in  Thee  "  then  ! 

Now,  and  when  Thou  com'st  again ; 

Now  at  war  among  Thy  foes, 

Then  at  peace  in  Thy  repose. 

Brother-man  and  Sovran-Lord 

Thine  our  Work  and  our  Reward  !     Amen, 


"  Who  is  sufficient  for  these  things  ? " 
"  Even  so  send  I  you." 

O  MY  Lord,  most  Holy, 

Summonest  Thou  me. 
Lowliest  'mid  the  lowly. 

As  Thyself  to  be  ? 
"  Yea,  because  I  call  thee, 

Take  thy  priestly  place, 
Front  what  may  befall  thee — 

Hast  thou  not  My  grace  ?  " 

Can  I  in  my  weakness 

Stand  as  in  Thy  stead  ? 
I,  in  might  or  meekness, 

Needing  to  be  led  ? 
"  Yes,  for  I  have  sent  thee. 

Laid  on  thee  My  poiver ; 
Be,  by  what  is  lent  thee, 

Equal  to  thine  ho7ir*' 



How  may  I  be  leader, 

Doubting  mine  own  way  ? 
Of  Thy  flock  the  feeder, 

Oft  myself  astray? 
"  Canst  not  trust  Thy  Master 

His  elect  to  keep  ? 
Think,  Uis  thine  own  Pastor 

Set  thee  o'er  His  sheep." 

Lord,  who  can  awaken 

Israel  cold  and  dead, 
Now  that  Thou  art  taken 

From  Thy  Church's  head? 
"Z<?,  My  mantle  folds  thee 

From  My  car  of  fire! 
Mine  Ascetision  holds  thee 

With  Me  to  aspire. 

"  Canst  thou  fear  or  falter 

Clothed  with  such  a  claim  ? 
Standing  at  Mine  Altar, 

Blessing  m  My  Name  ? 
When  Life's  path  grows  steeper, 

Pointing  out  the  Height, 
^Mid  the  darkness  deeper 

Holding  out  the  light." 

O  my  Master,  truly 

Thou  hast  met  my  need  ! 
They  who  follow  duly 

Duly  Thine  may  lead  ; 

266  HYMNS 

Following  Thee  for  ever, 
As  Thou  wilt  and  where, 

I,  in  Thee,  will  never 
Falter  or  despair. 

Father,  Son,  and  Spirit, 

'Tis  Thy  call  of  grace, 
Thine  election's  merit 

Seals  to  me  my  place: 
Lowest  'mid  the  lowly, 

Yet  I  call  Thee  mine: 
Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

Thine,  and  sent  to  Thine.     Amen. 


Who  loved  me,  and  gave  Himself  for  me." — Gal.  ii.  20. 

"  Remember  Me  :  show  forth  My  Death 

Until  Mine  Advent  be  "  : 
So  of  His  Altar-Feast  He  saith 

Who  gave  Himself  for  me. 

I  will  not  tremble  nor  delay, 

Unworthy  though  I  be  : 
He  will  not  send  my  soul  away 

Who  gave  Himself  for  me. 

For  there,  when  sorrows  come  to  prove 
Where  my  true  joy  should  be, 

Most  sweet  the  comfort  of  His  Love 
Who  gave  Himself  for  me. 

There,  too,  in  calm  of  holy  rest. 

My  weary  head  shall  be, 
As  if  it  lay  upon  His  breast 

Who  gave  Himself  for  me. 

268  HYMNS 

There  seem  I  ever  nearest  Home, 
Most  sure  of  bliss  to  be 

When  in  His  glory  He  shall  come 
Who  gave  Himself  for  me. 

O  that  I  ever  may  abide 

Where  only  life  can  be, 
Still  close  and  closer  to  His  side 

Who  gave  Himself  for  me  !     Amen. 


"Ye  do  show  the  Lord's  Death." — i  COR.  xi.  26. 
"Jesus  said,  Somebody  hath  touched  Me  ;  for  I  perceive  that  virtue 
is  gone  out  of  Me." — St.  Luke  viii.  46. 

Now  hath  been  shown,  O  Lord,  Thine  Act  of  Love: 
Shown  at  Thine  Altar  here,  and  shown  above. 

Here  hath  been  pleaded,  and  beyond  the  skies. 
The  perfect  yet  perpetual  Sacrifice. 

Thou  hast  been  with  us,  and  in  very  deed 
From  Thee  hath  virtue  gone  for  all  our  need  : 

Pardon  and  Peace  and  Joy  :  the  making  whole. 
The  making  glad,  of  every  faithful  soul. 

How  dared  we  come  so  close  despite  our  fear  ? 
Because  we  knew  the  Lord  of  Love  was  near. 

Thou  earnest — through  the  midst  of  many  a  care. 
The  mind's  depression  or  the  soul's  despair — 

A  Presence  calm — in  awful  silence — known. 
By  healing  touch,  to  those  in  need  alone. 


270  HYMNS 

Then  Thou  didst  bless  us  !     Now,  O  Lord,  we  pray 
May  this  Thy  Grace  grow  in  us  day  by  day  : 

Thy  Grace  of  Meekness,  learned  beneath  Thy  Feet, 
Where  all  things  strong  with  all  things  lowly  meet ; 

Thy  Grace  of  Faith,  serene  and  open-eyed, 
Far-gazing,  till  it  shall  be  satisfied ; 

Thy  Grace  of  Zeal,  in  toil  or  patience  sure. 
Keen  to  press  on,  or  happy  to  endure ; 

Thy  Grace  of  Love,  the  purest,  noblest,  best, 
With  eyes  on  Thee  and  trustful  heart  at  rest. 

Thy  Grace  of  Joy,  for  ever  fain  to  sing 

The  Praise  of  Thine  Eternal  Offering.     Amen. 


Homeward  we  pass,  in  Peace  : 
Our  Master's  message  given  : 
He  sends  us  on  our  earthly  way 
With  words  from  Heaven. 

The  Church's  words  arc  His  : 

This  "  Peace  "  is  said  with  power ; 
His  Blood-bought  Blessing  is  her  charge, 
Her  children's  dower. 

To  every  faithful  soul 

There  at  the  Altar  stand 
The  Love,  Grace,  Might,  of  God  Triune, 
With  lifted  hand. 

Hear  tender  Mercy's  words. 
Ye  souls  that  inly  mourn  ! 
Receive  your  Saviour's  Sympathy, 
Ye  hearts  forlorn ! 

272  HYMNS 

Hear  Wisdom's  word  of  light, 

All  ye  who  long  to  find 
The  knowledge  that  can  free  and  fill 
The  troubled  mind. 

So  blest  in  mind  and  heart 

Homeward  we  pass  to-day  : 
Dear  Lord,  so  may  we  wend  at  last 

Our  Heavenward  way.     Amen. 


"  Destitute,  afflicted,  tormented  :  of  whom  the  world  was  not  worthy." 

Heb.  xi.  37,  38. 

Their  names  are  names  of  kings 

Of  heavenly  line, 
The  bliss  of  earthly  things 

Who  did  resign. 

Chieftains  they  were,  who  warr'd 
With  sword  and  shield ; 

Victors  for  God  the  Lord 
On  foughten  field. 

Sad  were  their  days  on  earth, 
Mid  hate  and  scorn ; 

A  life  of  pleasure's  dearth, 
A  death  forlorn. 

Yet  blest  that  end  in  woe. 
And  those  sad  days ; 

Only  man's  blame  below — 
Above,  God's  praise ! 

'  An  expression  used  by  St.  Chrysostom. 
T  273 

274  HYMNS 

A  city  of  great  name 
Was  built  for  them, 

Of  glorious  golden  fame — 

Redeemed  with  precious  Blood 
From  death  and  sin, 

Sons  of  the  Triune  God, 
They  entered  in. 

So  did  the  life  of  pain 

In  glory  close ; 
Lord  God,  may  we  attain 

Their  grand  repose  !     Amen. 


"That  it  may  please  Thee.  .   .  finally  to  beat  down  Satan  under 
our  feet." — The  Litany. 

"For  He  must  reign  till  He  hath  put  all  enemies  under  His  feet."— 
I  Cor.  XV.  25. 

Watching  early,  late,  and  long. 
Sworn  to  crown  his  work  of  wrone. 
Satan  would  our  doom  complete, 
Tread  us  down  beneath  his  feet. 

Christ  against  him  aid  us  well ! — 
When  fair  lures  lead  on  to  hell ; 
While  the  Spring  blows  free  and  fresh,- 
LoRD,  beat  down  the  lust  of  flesh. 

When  our  life  in  Summer  noon, 
Reigning  through  its  roseate  June, 
Seems  an  age  that  cannot  die, — 
Lord,  beat  down  the  lust  of  eye. 

When  the  golden  Autumn  throws 
Glory  on  a  proud  repose, 
Or  adorns  a  splendid  strife, — 
Lord,  beat  down  the  pride  of  life. 

276  HYMNS 

When,  with  Death,  at  Winter's  night, 
He  shall  come  in  Hope's  despite. 
And  all  powers  and  passions  fleet — 
Beat  him  down  beneath  our  feet. 

Thou,  Whose  love  hath  made  us  free, 

When  he  claims  us  finally 

At  the  dread  tribunal  seat, — 

Beat  him  down  beneath  our  feet.     Amen. 


De  Patientia  Servanda 
A    HYMN   OF   ST.    THOMAS   A    KEMPIS 

Bear  the  troubles  of  thy  Hfe 

In  the  name  of  Christ  thy  Lord: 

Less  the  harm  of  stormy  strife 
Than  the  easy  world's  award. 

Many  a  foe  means  many  a  friend ; 

Earthly  losing  is  not  loss ; 
Patience  has  her  perfect  end, 

And  all  good  flows  from  the  Cross. 

Small  thy  toil  is :  short  thy  life  : 
Grand  and  endless  thy  reward  ! 

Through  the  sorrow  and  the  strife, 
The  confession  of  thy  Lord  ! 

Purer  gold  and  clearer  glass ! 

By  thy  pains  a  nobler  man, 
Through  the  furnace  thou  wilt  pass. 

Bearing  all  a  martyr  can. 

278  HYMNS 

So  thou  wilt  be  sterner  foe, 
So  thou  wilt  be  dearer  friend ; 

So  the  Saints  thy  name  will  know, 
And  Christ  own  thee  at  the  end. 

Call  on  Jesus  evermore. 

Be  His  Cross  thy  sign  alway. 

Love  the  saints  gone  on  before ; 
Ever  strive  and  watch  and  pray. 

Do  the  right :  the  truth  declare  ! 

Live  in  hopes  that  never  cease : 
Humbly  make  thy  God  thy  care, 

So  thou  shalt  find  perfect  peace.     Amen. 


"  He  ascended  into  heaven,  and  sitteth  on  the  right  hand  of 
God  the  Father  Almighty." 

On  Olivet  a  little  band 
Around  their  risen  Master  stand  : 
And,  after  charge  and  blessing  given, 
He  passeth  from  them  into  Heaven, 

Wistful  their  eyes,  but  angels  twain 
Cheer  them  with  glorious  words:  "Again 
One  day  shall  Jesus  even  so 
Return,  as  ye  have  seen  Him  go." 

Till  then  in  Heaven  He  doth  remain, 
True  God,  at  God's  right  hand  to  reign. 
True  Man,  at  human  woes  to  grieve, 
True  God,  Almighty  to  relieve. 

For  every  soul  in  every  need 
He  ever  lives  to  intercede. 
Presenting  there  within  the  veil 
The  Sacrifice  that  cannot  fail. 

28o  HYMNS 

Our  heavenly  great  High  Priest  He  stands: 
By  pierced  Feet,  and  pierced  Hands, 
By  thorn-scarr'd  Brow  and  riven  Side, 
He  pleads  for  those  for  whom  He  died ! 

Whom  have  we,  Lord,  in  heaven  but  thee  ? 
Like  ships  safe  moored  on  stormy  sea 
Our  souls,  in  peril,  with  Thee  there 
Find  anchorage  of  hope  and  prayer. 

Set  loose  from  earth,  and  evermore 
Fast  bound  to  that  eternal  shore. 
So  all  our  life  and  love  shall  be, 
Ascended  Master,  hid  with  Thee !     Amen, 


"  Until  the  Day  break  and  the  shadows  flee  away."— Canticles  ii.  17. 

Dark  is  the  sky  that  overhangs  my  soul, 
The  mists  are  thick  that  through  the  valley  roll, 
But  as  I  tread  I  cheer  my  heart  and  say, 
When  the  Day  breaks  the  shadows  flee  away. 

Unholy  phantoms  from  the  deep  arise, 
And  gather  through  the  gloom  before  mine  eyes ; 
But  all  shall  vanish  at  the  dawning  ray — 
When  the  Day  breaks  the  shadows  flee  away. 

I  bear  the  lamp  my  Master  gave  to  me, 
Burning  and  shining  must  it  ever  be, 
And  I  must  tend  it  till  the  night  decay — 
Till  the  Day  break  and  shadows  flee  away. 

He  maketh  all  things  good  unto  His  own, 
For  them  in  every  darkness  light  is  sown ; 
He  will  make  good  the  gloom  of  this  my  day — 
Till  that  Day  break  and  shadows  flee  away. 
T  2  281 

282  HYMNS 

He  will  be  near  me  in  the  awful  hour 

When  the  last  Foe  shall  come  in  blackest  power ; 

And  He  will  hear  me  when  at  last  I  pray, 

Let  the  Day  break,  the  shadows  flee  away  1 

In  Him,  my  God,  my  Glory,  I  will  trust : 
Awake  and  sing,  O  dweller  in  the  dust ! 
Who  shall  come,  will  come,  and  will  not  delay — 
His  Day  will  break,  those  shadows  flee  away  ! 


<'I    BELIEVE   IN 

"  Her  sins,  which  are  many,  are  forgiven,  for  she  loved  much." 
St.  Luke  vii.  47. 

Weary  of  earth  and  laden  with  my  sin, 
I  look  at  heaven  and  long  to  enter  in. 
But  there  no  evil  thing  may  find  a  home — 
And  yet  I  hear  a  Voice  that  bids  me  "  Come." 

So  vile  I  am,  how  dare  I  hope  to  stand 

In  the  pure  glory  of  that  holy  land  ? 

Before  the  whiteness  of  that  Throne  appear  ? — 

Yet  there  are  Hands  stretched  out  to  draw  me  near. 

The  while  I  fain  would  tread  the  heavenly  way. 

Evil  is  ever  with  me  day  by  day — 

Yet  on  mine  ears  the  gracious  tidings  fall, 

"  Repent,  confess,  thou  shalt  be  loosed  from  all." 

It  is  the  voice  of  Jesus  that  I  hear. 
His  are  the  Hands  stretched  out  to  draw  me  near, 
And  His  the  Blood  that  can  for  all  atone. 
And  set  me  faultless  there  before  the  Throne. 


284  HYMNS 

'Twas  He  Who  found  me  on  the  deathly  wild, 
And  made  me  heir  of  heaven,  the  Father's  child, 
And  day  by  day,  whereby  my  soul  may  live. 
Gives  me  His  grace  of  pardon,  and  will  give. 

O  great  Absolver,  grant  my  soul  may  wear 
The  lowliest  garb  of  penitence  and  prayer. 
That  in  the  Father's  courts  my  glorious  dress 
May  be  the  garment  of  Thy  righteousness. 

Yea,  Thou  wilt  answer  for  me.  Righteous  Lord  : 
Thine  all  the  merits,  mine  the  great  reward ; 
Thine  the  sharp  thorns,  so  mine  the  golden  crown, 
Mine  the  life  won,  through  Thine  the  life  laid  down. 

Naught  can  I  bring,  dear  Lord,  for  all  I  owe, 
Yet  let  my  full  heart  what  it  can  bestow ; 
Like  Mary's  gift  let  my  devotion  prove. 
Forgiven  greatly,  how  I  greatly  love.     Amen. 


A  helm  upon  my  brow  I  wear  . 

A  little  while,  O  Death,  a  little  while 

Among  the  graves  :  but  round  us  the  sweet  air 

An  end,  an  end  !     What  hath  an  end  ?    . 

A  night  of  silence  and  of  gloom 

Another  beacon-light  blown  out  above  us 

A  simple  cross,  let  in  the  outer  wall 

A  tender  mist  of  amber  lawn    . 

At  the  Well's  heart  serene  and  deep 

Bear  the  troubles  of  thy  life 

Beautiful  truths  may  lurk  in  secret  signs 

Blow,  breeze,  from  the  north  and  the  west 

Calm  sea  .... 
Christ,  the  Wisdom  and  the  Power  ! 

Dark  is  the  sky  that  overhangs  my  soul  . 
Dear  Arnold,  life  is  less  by  loss  of  thee  . 
Dear  friends  among  the  hills,  I  sit  at  home 

Eastward,  ever  eastward 

England,  by  thine  own  Saint  Alban 

Ere  this,  and  in  the  fuller  year,  there  fell 

Fain  is  the  wakened  soul  to  try 

From  his  short  slumber  in  the  early  morn 

Gather  the  Harvest  in 

God  of  supreme  dominion 

Good-bye  at  last  to  Oxford  !  with  full  eyes 

He  died  the  beautiful  death 
Homeward  we  pass,  in  Peace   . 





















If  I  forget  thee,  O  thou  lowly  Shrine 

I  love  the  Domus.     Fioreat !  though  no  more 

In  ancient  days,  so  saith  un  old  Romaunt 

In  One  Name  I  have  found  the  all  in  all 

lona's  hills  are  lowly 

"  I  will  not  spare  :  within  its  circling  wall " 

Kate  to  others,  hut  my  Kitty  ! 

Lord  Christ,  my  Master  dear 

Master-Magician  of  that  breezy  Spring  . 
Moored  by  a  green  isle  of  Winandermerc 
Most  strange  !  . 

My  God  hath  heard  me  :  I  am  His 

Not,  Florence,  for  the  glory  of  thy  skies 
*'  Not  her  name,  but  Florence,"  such  is  . 
Not  sparse  of  friends  the  world  has  been  to  me 
Now  hath  been  shown,  O  Lord,  Thine  Act  of  Lov 

O  fellow-Christian  !  whosoe'er  thou  art    . 
O  my  Lord,  most  Holy 
On  Olivet  a  little  band 

"  Remember  Me  :  show  forth  My  Death  " 

Rock  and  roar 

Round  the  Sacred  City  gather  . 

Since  I  knelt  here  ten  years  have  slipt  away 
Sleep,  little  flower,  whose  petals  fade  and  fall 
So  must  it  be  without,  while  Time  shall  be 
Soon  will  the  Holy  Week  be  here 

The  Church's  one  Foundation 

The  din  of  the  great  town  is  on  my  ears 

The  Garden  that  has  been,  and  is  no  more  ! 

Their  names  are  names  of  kings 

The  little  maid  lay  moaning 

Then  with  the  early  summer  came  the  zest 

The  old  year's  long  campaign  is  o'er 

There  stands  a  little  cottage  near  the  wood 

"  The  richest  glow  sets  round  th'  autumnal  sun" 

The  room  is  dark,  and  at  the  door  is  Death 



The  Spring-tide  air  was  breathing  balm  . 
The  watching  Church  was  near  her  Easter  hope 
Thou  Who  hast  charged  Thine  elder  sons 
Through  midnight  gloom  from  Macedon 
'Tis  peace  in  pain  to  know  that  Pain 

Unchanging  GoD,  hear  from  eternal  Heav'n 

Watching  early,  late,  and  long 

Weary  of  earth  and  laden  with  my  sin 

We  five  went  blithely  gravewards  on  May-day 

What  shall  I  be  ?       . 

Where  the  shade  is  stands  the  Lord 

Within,  the  sounds  were  all  of  praise  and  prayer 






Addison,  Joseph,  lo 

Aidan,  St.,  34 

Alban,  St.,  250 

Alexander,  Cecil  Frances,  22 

Alfriston,  36 

Alhatnbra,  The,  9 

All  Hallows',  London  Wall,  i,  58, 

Ancient  and  Modern,  Hymns,  28, 

Argyll  and  the  Isles,  Bishop  of, 


Arnold,  Frederick,  219 

Arnold,  Matthew,  II 

Arthur,  King,  19 

A  Treatise  on  the  Fruites  of  Re- 
demption, 60 

Augustine,  St.,  34 

Aurelia,  28 

Beaumont,  Sir  John,  1 1 
Bemerton,  i 

Bennett,  Rev.  W.  J.  E.,  7 
Benson,  Archbishop,  72 
Bernard  of  Morlaix,  St.,  24 
Birdie,  The,  2,  185 
Black  Country,  The,  2 
Blomfield,  Bishop,  8 
Blorafield,  Sir  Arthur,  37 
Booth,  Mr.  Charles,  36 
Broad  Street  Station,  59,  64 

Brown,  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Haig,  70 
Browning,   Elizabeth  Barrett,   5, 

18,  45,  85,  204 
Burritt,  Elihu,  185  n. 

Cannock  Chase,  2,  5 
Carr,  Rev.  Donald,  40-1 
Charterhouse,  The,  5,  8-10,  35, 

68,  207-8 
Chaucer's  Pilgrims,  6 
Cheltenham,  7 

Christian  Year,  The,  17,  20,  45 
Church  Bells,  29 
Church,  Dean,  8 
Church  of  England  Temperance 

Society,  The,  14 
Church  Revival,  The,  8,  46 
Churches  one  Foundation,  The,  i, 

21,25,27-30,38,  72,74,239 
Church  Stretton,  40 
Churchwardens'  accounts,  59-60 
Clapton,  66,  68 
Close,  Dean,  7 
Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  11 
Coeur  de  Lion,  Richard,  5 
Columba,  St.,  33-4,  45,  135,  149 
Colwich,  2 

Confirmation,  13,  52-3,  55 
Cowper,  William,  70 
Crashaw,  Richard,  9 
Creighton,  Bishop,  68,  74 




Dance,  Nathaniel,  61 

Dante,  6 

Deare  Childe,  31,  163 

Dies  Irae,  The,  23 

Down  Stream  to  London,  II,  77 

Dream  of  Fair  Women,  A,  33 

Dream  of  Gerontius,  The,  33,  71 

Durham,  Diocese  of,  38 

East  End,  The,  36-58,  215-18 
East  London,  Church  folk  of,  57 
East  London  Church  Fund,  The, 

Edmonton,  63-4 
Ellison,  Canon,  5 
Essays  and  Reviews,  6 

Fasting,  66 

Good-bye  to  Oxford,  11,82 
Goodhart,  Rev.  H.  W.,  58 
Greatheart,  Mr.,  5 
Gregory,  Rev.  R.  S.,  63 

Hackney,  9 
Haggerston  Gorse,  41 
Haggerston,  St.  Paul's,  i,  4,  34, 

Havelock,  Sir  Henry,  9 
Heartease,  71 
Henry  IV.,  60 
Herbert,  George,  i,  3,  22,  33 
High  Wycombe,  12 
Holy  War,  The,  5 
Home  Words,  31 
Hook,  Dean,  8 
Hooker,  Richard,  12 
Horace,  73 
How,  Bishop  Walsham,  44 

Hursley,  X 

Hymns,  21-5,  32-3 

Hymns  Ancient  and  Modern,  28, 

Hymn-writers,  Latin,  23 

Idylls  of  Deare  Childe,  31,  163 
Idylls  of  the  King,  The,  19 
Ingram,  Bishop,  70,  72 
Innsbruck,  19 

lona,  33-4,  45,  135,  149,  151 
Isaiah,  23 

Jackson,  Bishop,  37 

Jacobson's,      Bishop,       Apostolic 

Fathers,  16 
Jebb,  Sir  Richard,  9 
Jenner,  Sir  William,  17 
Jephthah's  daughter,  71 
Jesus  calls  us  o'er  the  tumult,  22 
Jews,  Work  among  the,  56-7 
Johnson,  Dr.,  10,  11 

Keats,  John,  15,  19 
Keble,  John,  i,  8,  12,  20,  206 
Kempis,  St.  Thomas  a,  24,  277 
Ken,  Bishop,  12,  29-30 
Kingsley,  Charles,  67-8 
Knight  of  Intercession,  The,  19, 
31.  32,  37,  155 

Lavington,  13 

Lays  of  lona,  33,  45,  67 

Lea,  The  River,  9,  10,  39 

Lichfield,  6 

Lightfoot,  Bishop,  38 

Lindisfarne,  34 

Litany  Guild,  63 

Liverpool  Street  Station,  59,  64 



Longfellow,    Henry   Wadsworth, 

Long  Mynd  hills,  The,  40 

Lovelace,  Richard,  10 

Lyra  Apostolica,  21 

Lyra  Eucharistica,  21 

Lyra  Fidelitiin,  21,  31 

Lyra  Innocentium,  21 

Lyra  Messianica,  21 

Lyric  of  lona :  Past,  and  To  Be, 


Masterman  Ready,  5 

Maximilian  L,  19 

Medilation  in  a  Night  of  Pain, 

35.  69,  "6 

Melville,  Whyte,  31 

Miserere,  The,  25 

' '  Morning  Robert,"  31,    171 

National  Trust,  The,  37 
Newdigate,  The,  il 
Newman,  John  Henry,  1 
No  Popery  riots,  8 
Norwood,  73 

Oxford,  10-12,  82-4 
Oxford  Sacred  Poem,  31 

Paradiso,  The,  33 

Parish,  Methods  of  working  a,  50 

Parochial  Sermons,  S.  J.  Stone's, 


Pembroke   College,    Oxford,    10, 

Pembroke  Rowing  Club,  10 
Pilgrim'' s  Progress,  The,  5 
Poetry,  S.  J.  Stone's,  9,  11,  31-5, 

67,  69 ;  as  an  educative  force, 


Poor  Brethren,  The,  8 
Portico,  The,  9 
Port-na-Churaich,  149  n. 
Poussin  Rationaliste,  Le,  32 
Preaching,  54;  S.  J.  Stone's,  55-6 
Princess,  The,  33 

Rationalistic  Chicken,  The  Solilo- 
quy of  a,  31,  223 
Renaissance  work,  61 
Rhythm  of  St.  Bernard,  The,  24-5 
Rosenthal,  Rev.  M.,  56 
Rossetti,  Christina,  22 
Ruskin,  John,  6 

St.  Cohitnb  of  lona,  33,  135 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  6,  7,  37 
St.  Paul's,  Knightsbridge,  7 
Sancho,  40,  220 
School  Board,  The  London,  19, 

42-3.  52 

Schools,  17-18 

Scott  Holland,  Canon,  7 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  5,  18,  203 

Sermons,  54 ;  S.  J.  Stone's,  55-6 

Shakespeare,  33 

Shenstone,  William,  il 

Shoreditch,  St.  Leonard's,  36 

Shrewsbury,  40 

Sinai,  31 

Soliloquy  of  a  Rationalistic 
Chicken,    The,   31,  223 

Soutli  African  War,  The,  70 

Spiritual  Letters,  66 

Spital,  15 

Stepney,  Bishop  of,  70,  72 

Stone,  Samuel  John  (iJ.  April  25th, 
1839 ;  d.  November  19th, 
1900) ;  birth,    I  ;   childhood. 



2  ;  early  influences,  2,  5,  12, 
8-20 ;  school  days,  8-10 ; 
wins  school  poem,  9 ;  Oxford 
life,  10-12  ;  proxime  accessit 
for  Newdigate,  11  ;  Ordina- 
tion, 13  ;  work  at  Windsor, 
14-35;  hymn-writing,  18-30, 
37;  poetry,  9,  11,  31-5,  67, 
69 ;  wins  Oxford  Sacred 
Poem,  31  ;  work  at  St. 
Paul's,  Haggerston,  36-58 ; 
personal  appearance,  38-9 ; 
character  and  tastes,  39-42, 
44-47 ;  care  for  his  day- 
schools,  42-3,  47,  51  ; 
idealism,  46-8 ;  as  parish 
priest,  48-54 ;  as  preacher, 
54-6 ;  refuses  colonial  bishop- 
ric, 57 ;  work  at  All  Hallows', 
London  Wall,  59-74 ;  as 
rector  of  a  City  church,  61-5 ; 
hymnological  work,  67  ;  re- 
moves to  Charterhouse,  68  ; 
last  illness,  68-71  ;  death, 
71  ;  funeral,  71-3 
Stone,  William,  3-5,  17,  36,  37 
Swan's  nest  among  the  reeds.  The, 

Symon  the  anker,  60,  66 
Synionds,  John  Addington,  1 1 

Temple,  Archbishop,  58 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  10,  18, 

19-  45.  205 
Thanksgiving  for  Prince  of  Wales' 
recovery,  37 

The  Birdie,  2,  185 
The  Church's  one  Fotmdation,  i, 
21,    25,   27,  30,   38,  72,  74, 


The  Knight  of  Intercession ^   19, 

31,  32,  37,  155 

There   is  a  fountain  filled  with 

blood,  70 
There  is  a  green  hill  far  away,  22 
Thomas  a  Kempis,  St.,  24,  277 
Times,  The,  29 
Trench,  Archbishop,  23 
Trent,  The  River,  5 

Ulysses,  10 

Vaughan,  Henry,  33 

Walton,  Izaak,  3 

Weary   of  earth,    21,    25-6,    30, 

Wesley,  John,  10,  63 
Wesley,  Sebastian,  28 
Westminster  Gazette,  The,  65 
Whitechapel,  St.  Mark's,  56 
Whitmore,  i,  3 
Wilberforce,  Bishop  Samuel,  12- 

13,  29,  88 
Windermere,  212 
Windsor,  i,  13,  i4-35>  7°.  209-11 
Wood  Street,  Cheapside,  59 
Woolstaston,  40-1 
Wordsworth,  William,  59 
Wren,  Sir  Christopher,  7 

Yonge,  Charlotte  Mary,  65,  71 














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Part  II. — Fiction 

Marie  Corelli's  Novels. 

Crotun  ^vo.     6s.  each. 

Twenty-}^  ourtli  Edition. 

VENDETTA.    Nineteenth  Edition. 

THELMA.     Twenty-Ninth  Edition. 

SELF.     Fourteenth  Edition. 

THE  SOUL  OF  LILITH.     Twelfth  Edit. 

WORMWOOD.     Thirteenth  Edition. 

WORLD'S  TRAGEDY.  Thirty-Eighth 

'  The  tender  reverence  of  the  treatment 
and  the  imaginative  beauty  of  the  writing 
have  reconciled  us  to  the  daring  of  the  con- 
ception. This  "Dream  of  the  World's 
Tragedy"  is  a  lofty  and  not  inadequate 
paraphrase  of  the  supreme  climax  of  the 
inspired  narrative.' — Dublin  Review. 

Sixth  Edition. 

'  A  very  powerful  piece  of  work.  .  .  . 
The  conception  is  magnificent,  and  i;,  likely 
to  win  an  abiding  place  within  the  memory 
of  man.  .  .  .  The  author  has  immense  com- 
mand of  language,  and  a  limitless  audacity. 
.  .  .  Thisinterestmg  and  remarkable  romance 
will  live  long  after  much  of  the  ephemeral 
literature  of  the  day  is  forgotten.  ...  A 
literary  phenomenon  .  .  .  novel,  and  even 
sublime.'— W.  T.  Stead  in  the  Review 
of  Reviews. 


[165M  Thousand. 
'It  cannot  be  denied  that  "The  Master 

Christian"  is  a  powerful  book  ;  that  it  is  one 
likely  to  raise  uncomfortable  questions  in 
all  but  the  most  self-satisfied  readers,  and 
that  it  strikes  at  the  root  of  the  failure  of 
the  Churches— the  decay  of  faith — in  a 
manner  which  shows  the  inevitable  disaster 
heaping  up  .  .  .  The  good  Cardinal  Bonpr6 
is  a  beautiful  figure,  fit  to  stand  beside  the 
good  Bishop  in  "  Les  Mis(irables."  It  is  a 
book  with  a  serious  purpose  expressed  with 
absolute  unconventionality  and  passion  .  .  . 
And  this  is  to  say  it  is  a  book  worth  read- 
ing.'— Examiner. 

\i^oth  Thousand. 
'  It  is  impossible  to  read  such  a  work  as 
"  Temporal  Power"  without  becoming  con- 
vinced that  the  story  is  intended  to  convey 
certain  criticisms  on  the  ways  of  the  world 
and  certain  suggestions  for  the  betterment 
of  humanity.  .  .  .  The  chief  characteristics 
of  the  book  are  an  attack  on  conventional 
prejudices  and  manners  and  on  certain 
practices  attributed  to  the  Roman  Church 
(the  policy  of  M.  Combes  makes  parts  of  the 
novel  specially  up  to  date),  and  the  pro- 
pounding of  theories  for  the  improvement 
of  the  social  and  political  systems.  ...  If 
the  chief  intention  of  the  book  was  to  hold 
the  mirror  up  to  shams,  injustice,  dishonesty, 
cruelty,  and  neglect  of  conscience,  nothing 
but  praise  can  be  given  to  that  intetition.' — 
jSIortiing  Post. 

THE  GOD  IN  THE  CAR.  Ninth  Edition. 
'  A  very  remarkable  book,  deserving  of 
critical  analysis  impossible  within  our  limit  ; 
brilliant,  but  not  superficial;  well  con- 
sidered, but  not  elaborated  ;  constructed 
■with  the  proverbial  art  that  conceals,  but 
yet  allows  itself  to  be  enjoyed  by  readers 
to  whom  fine  literary  method  is  a  keen 
pleasure.'—  The  World. 

A  CHANGE  OF  AIR.     Sixth  Edition. 

'A  graceful,    vivacious  comedy,   true   to 
human  nature.     The  characters  are  traced 
with  a  masterly  hand.' — Titnes. 
A  MAN  OF  i\IARK.     Fifth  Edition. 

'Of  all  Mr.  Hope's  books,  "A  Man  of 
Mark"  is  the  one  which  best  compares  with 
"The  Prisoner  of  Zenda."'—A^a/jV«a/  Ob- 

ANTONIO.     Fifth  Edition. 

'It  is  a  perfectly  enchanting  story  of  love 
and  chivalry,  and  pure  romance.  The 
Count  is  the  most  constant,  desperate,  and 

Anthony  Hope's  Novels. 

Crown  %vo.     ts.  each. 

modest  and  tender  of  lovers,  a  peerless 
gentleman,  an  intrepid  fighter,  a  faithful 
friend,  and  a  magnanimous  foe.' — Guardian. 

PHROSO.      Illustrated  by   H.    R.   Millar. 
Sixth  Edition. 

'  The  tale  is  thoroughly  fresh,  quick  with 
vitality,  stirring  the  blood.' — St.  James's 

SIMON  DALE.  Illustrated.  Sixth  Edition. 
'  There  is  searching  analysis  of  human 
nature,  with  a  most  ingeniously  constructed 
plot.  Mr.  Hope  has  drawn  the  contrasts 
of  his  women  with  marvellous  subtlety  and 
d  elicacy. ' —  Times. 

THE  KING'S  MIRROR.  Fourth  Edition. 
'  In  elegance,  delicacy,  and  tact  it  ranks 
with  the  best  of  his  novels,  while  in  the  wide 
range  of  its  portraiture  and  the_  subtilty 
of  its  analysis  it  surpasses  all  his  earlier 
ventures. ' — Spectator. 

QUISANTE.     Fourth  Edition. 

'  The  book  is  notable  for  a  very  high  liter- 
ary quality,  and  an  impress  of  power  and 
mastery  on  every  page.' — Daily  Chronicle. 


Messrs,  Metiiuen's  Catalogue 

W.   W.    Jacobs'    Novels. 

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MANY  CARGOES.  Tiveniy-Scvcnth  Edition. 
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A     MASTER     OF     CRAFT.      Illustrated. 
Si.xt/i  Edition. 

'Can  be  unreservedly  recommended  to 
all  who  have  not  lost  their  a]>pctitc  for 
wholesome  laughter.' — .Spectator. 

'The  best  humorous  book  published  for 
many  a  i\.xy.'— IS  lack  and  ly/iite. 



Illustrated.     Fourth 

'  His  wit  and  humour  are  perfectly  irresis- 
tible. Mr.  Jacobs  writes  of  skippers,  and 
mates,  and  seamen,  and  liis  crew  are  the 
jollicst  lot  that  ever  sailed.'— Z;<t;7j/  Xeii's. 

'  Laughter  in  every  page,'— Z^a;7y  Maii. 

Lucas  Malet's  Novels. 

Crown  Svo.     6s.  each. 

ENDERBY'S  WIFE.      Third 




LITTLE  PETER.  Second  Edition.  3s.  6d. 
THE  WAGES  OF  SIN.  Thirteenth  Edition. 
THE  CARISSIMA.     Fourth  Edition. 

THE    OATELESS     BARRIER.      Fourth 

\  In  "The  Gateless  Barrier"  it  is  at  once 
evident  that,  whilst  Lucas  Malet  has  pre- 
served her  birthright  of  originality,  the 
artistry,  the  actual  writing,  is  above  even 
the  high  level  of  the  books  that  were  born 
before. ' —  Westminster  Gazette. 

CALINIADY,  Seventh  Edition.  A  Limited 
Edition  in  Two  Volumes.    CrownZvo.    \2S. 

'A  picture  finely  and  amply  conceived. 
In  the  strength  and  insight  in  which  the 
story  has  been  conceived,  in  the  wealth  of 
fancy  and  reflection  bestowed  upon  its 
execution,  and  in  the  moving  sincerity  of  its 
pathos  throughout,  "Sir  Richard  Calmady  " 
miist  rank  as  the  great  novel  of  a  great 
writer. ' — Literature. 

'  The  ripest  fruit  of  Lucas  Malet's  genius. 
A  picture  of  maternal  love  by  turns  tender 
and  terrible." — Spectator. 

'A  remarkably  fine  book,  with  a  noble 
motive  and  a  sound  conclusion.' — Pilot. 

Gilbert  Parker's  Novels. 
Crown  8vo.     6s.  each. 

PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE,     Fifth  Edi- 

'  Stories  happily  conceived  and  finely  ex- 
ecuted.     There  is  strength  and  genius   in 
Mr.  Parker's  style.'— Z^a/Zy  Telegraph. 
MRS.  FALCHION.     Fourth  Edition. 
'A  splendid  study  of  character.' — 

Second  Edition. 

THE    TRAIL    OF    THE   SWORD.     Illus- 
trated.    Seventh  Edition. 

'A  rousing  and  dramatic  tale.  A  book 
like  this  is  a  joy  inexpressible.' — ■ 

Daily  Chronicle. 
The    Story  of   a   Lost    Napoleon.     F'i/th 

'Here  we  find  romance — real,  breathing, 
living  romance.  The  character  of  Valmond 
is  drawn  \in<^ir\ng\y,:'— Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

The  Last  Adventures  of  '  Pretty  Pierre. ' 
Third  Edition. 

'  The  present  book  is  full  of  fine  and  mov- 
ing stories  of  the  great  Noxth.'—Glasrow 
THE  SEATS  OF  THE  MIGHTY,     Illus- 
trated,     Twel/th  Edition. 

_ '  Mr.  Parker  has  produced  a  really   fine 
historical  novel.' — A  thcnirutn. 

'A  great  hook.'— Black  and  White. 
THE    BATTLE    OF    THE    STRONG:    a 
Romance  of  Two  Kingdoms,     Illustrated. 
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'  Nothing  more  vigorous  or  more  human 
has  come  from  Mr.  Gilbert  Parker  than  this 
novel.' — Literature. 
Second  Edition.     3  j-.  dd. 

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'An  absolute  masterpiece,  which  any 
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humour  there   is 

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Harry  LaWSOn,  Author  of  '  When  the  Billy 
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XIV.  A  MAN  OF  MARK.     By  Anthony  Hope. 

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XX.  DODO.  By  E.  F.  Benson. 
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'  The  Novelist  '  are  as 

XXIII.  THE  HUMAN  BOY.    By  Eden  Phillpotts. 


liy  Anthony  Hope. 

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XXVI.  KHTY  ALONH.     By  S.  B.arinc-Gould. 
XXVII.  Giles  INGILUY.     By  W.  E.  Norris. 

XXVI II.  URITH.     By  S.  Baring-Gould. 
XXIX.  THE  TOWN  TRAVELLER.     By  George 
XXX.  Mr.  smith.     By  Mrs.  Walford. 
XXXI.  A  CHANGE  OF  AlH.    By  Anthony  Hope 
XXXII.  THE  KLOOF  BRIDE.  By  Ernest  Glanville. 
XX.XIII.  ANGEL.     By  B.  M.  Croker. 
XXXIV.  A  COUNSEL  OF  Perfection.  By  Lucas 

THE  Baby's  Grandmother.   By  Mrs. 


THE  COUNTESS  Tekla.  By  Robert  Barr 
Drift.    By  L.  T.  Meade. 
X.KXVIII.  THE  Master   of   Beechwood.    By 
Adeline  Sergeant. 
XXXIX.  Clementina.   By  A.  E.  W.  Mason. 
XL.  THE  Alien.    By  F.  F".  Montresor. 
XLI.  THE  BROOM  squire.      By  S.   Baring- 
XLII.  Honey.    By  Helen  Mathers. 
XLIII.  The  Footsteps  of  a  Thrqne.     By 
Max  Peuibcrton. 

/lftetbucn'6  Sijpcnni^  Xibrar^ 

By  Major-General 
By  Major-General 


The  Downfall  of  Prempeh. 

My  Danish  Sweetheart.    By  W.  Clark  Russell. 

IN     THE     ROAR    OF    THE      SEA.      By    S.     Bariu;;- 

PFGGY  OF  THE  Bartons.     By  B.  M.  Croker. 
THE  GREEN  Graves  of  Balgowrie.    By  Jane 

H.  Findlater. 
THE  Stolen  Bacillus.    By  H.  G.  Wells. 
MATTHEW  AUSTIN.     By  W.  E.  Norris. 
THE    CONQUEST     OF     LONDON.       By    Dorothea 

A  VOYAGE  of  CONSOLATION.     By  Sara  J.  Duncan. 
THE  MUTABLE  MANY.     By  Robert  Barr. 
Ben  HUR.     By  General  Lew  Wallace. 
SIR  ROBERT'S  FORTUNE.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant. 
THE  Fair  God.    By  General  Lew  Wallace. 
CLARISSA  FURIOSA.     By  W.  E.  Norris. 
CranFORD.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell. 
NoEMI.     By  S.  B.aring-Goiild. 
THE  THRONE  OF  DAVID.    By  J.  II.  Ingraham. 

ACROSS    THE    SALT    SEAS.       By    J.     Bloundelle 

THE  Mill  on  the  Floss.     By  George  Eliot. 
PETER  Sl.MPLK.     By  Captain  Marryat. 
Mary  Barton.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell. 
PRIDE  AND  PREJUDICE.    By  Jane  Austen. 
NORTH  AND  SOUTH.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell. 
J.\COB  Faithful.     By  Captain  Marryat. 
SHIRLEY.     By  Charlotte  Bronte-  _     ,, 

Fairy  Tales  re-Told.    By  S.  Baring  Gould. 
THE  TRUE  History  of  Joshua  Davidson.    By 

Mrs.  Lynn  Linton. 
A  STATE  Secret.    By  B.  M  Croker. 
Sam's  Sweetheart.    By  Helen  Mathers. 
IIANDLEY  Cross.     By  U.  S.  Surtees. 
Anne  Mauleverer.    By  Mrs.  Caffyn. 
THE  Adventurers.    By  II.  B.  M.arnott  Watson. 
Dante's  Divine  Comedy.     Translated  by  11.  F, 

THE  CEDAR  Star.    By  M.  E.  Mann. 
Master  ok  men.    By  E.  P.  Oppenheim. 
THE  TRAIL  QF  THE  SWORU.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

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